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CONTENTS   OF   VOLUME   II. 


PLAYS. 

THE  BETROTHAL  :    A  PLAY, 

THE  WIDOW'S  MARRIAGE :    A  COMEDY,    . 

POEMS. 

THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER,   ......  225 

THE  IYOKY  CARVER,         ......  254 

THE  SONG  or  THE  EARTH,     .          ». "        .          .          .          .  278 

THE  VISION  OP  THE  GOBLET,     '•  ..       .          .          .          .  292 

ODE  TO  ENGLAND,        .          .          ...          .           .          .  297 

THE  QUEEN'S  TOUCH,        ......  303 

"  I  HATE  A  COTTAGE,"  .  .  .  .  .  .308 

ODE  TO  A  MOUNTAIN  OAK,          .....  313 

THE  RIVER  AND  THE  MAIDEN,         .....  317 

VESTIGIA  RETRORSUM,       .  ,  .  .  .  .321 

A  BALLAD  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN,          ....  325 

THE  SIEGE  OF   CABEZON,  ......  331 

COUNT  CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD,      .....  337 

THE  DEATH  OF  DONA  URRACA,             ....  341 

THE  LEGEND  OF  MARIA  CORONEL,    .....  346 

SONGS. 
THE  ROSE  OF  GRANADA,         .....         351 

"  THERE  WAS  A  GAY  MAIDEN,"  .....   355 

LIDA,        .          .          .          .  .  .          .         356 

"In  A  DREAM,"     .          .          .          .          .          .          .358 

673918 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN,"     .....  360 
"  THE  FEVER  IN  MY  BLOOD,"        .....    361 

"I  SIT  BENEATH  THE   SUNBEAM'S  GLOW,"    ...  362 

"  WHEEL,  ON  THY  AXLE,  SWIFTLY  EUN,"         .          .  .    364 
STREET  LYRICS. 

I.  THE  GROCER'S  DAUGHTER,      ....  365 
II.  A  MYSTERY,            •••«..    367 

ILL  THE  Two  BIRDS, 369 

IV.  FLOWERS  AT  THE  WINDOW,          .          .          .  .372 

BONNETS. 

THE  AWAKING  OP  THE  POETICAL  FACULTY,            .          .  374 
To  ANDREW  JACKSON,        ......    375 

To  Louis  NAPOLEON,    .        .  .          .          .          .          .  376 

To  ENGLAND. 

I.  "Lear  and  Cordelia,"             ....  377 

II.  "  Stand,  thou  great  bulwark,"    .           .           .  .378 

III.  "  At  length  the  tempest,"       ....  379 

IV.  "  Far  from  the  Baltic,"     .           .           .           .  .380 
V.  "0,  men  of  England,"            ....  381 

VI.  "Once  more  old  England's  banner,"      .           .  .    382 

VII.  "  Faint  not  nor  tremble,"       ....  383 

To  AMERICA. 

I.  "What,  cringe  to  Europe,"    ....  384 

II.  "  What  though  the  cities  blaze,"            .           .  .385 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  SERGEANT,         ...  386 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  M.  A.  B.,    .           .          .          .  .    387 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  S.  S.,      .          .          .          .          .  388 

To  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

I.  "  What  changes  of  our  natures,"      .          .          .  389 

II.  "  The  world  seems  strangely  altered,"   .           .  .    390 

"How  the  fixed  gaze,"             .....  391 

"Dear  is  the  fruit,"  ......    392 

"  Not  when  the  buxom  form,"           ....  393 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGB 

"  Spring,  in  the  gentle  look,"      .....    394 

"  Either  the  sum  of  this  sweet  mutiny,"      ...         395 
"  I  '11  call  thy  frown,"       .  .  .  .  .  .396 

"Nay,  not  to  thee,"     ......         397 

"How  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love,"  .  .  .    398 

"  Why  shall  I  chide," 399 

"Love  is  that  orbit,"         .....  .400 

"  Thou  who  dost  smile,"          .....         401 

"Fear  not,  dear  maid,"     ......    402 

"  Where  lags  my  mistress,"     .....         403 

"0!  would  that  fortune," 404 

"  Your  love  to  me,"      ......         405 

"No  gentle  touches,"         .  .  .  .  ,  .-406 

"  Doubt  is  the  offspring,"        .....         407 

"As  at  an  altar,"    .  .  .  .  .  .    408 

"I  do  assure  thee,"      ......         409 

"To  win  and  lose  thee,"    ......    410 

"  Here  part  we,"  ......         411 

"And  shall  we  part,"         ......    412 

"  No  hope  is  mine,"     ......         413 

"  Imagine,  love,"    .......    414 

"  My  lady  sighs," 415 

"  If  by  an  absence,"          ......    416 

"  Hence,  cold  despair,"  .....         417 

"  On  my  lady's  letter," 418 

"  The  ghostly  midnight,"        .  .  .  419 

"In  this  deep  hush,"         .  .  .  .  .  .420 

"  I  have  been  mounted  on  life's,"     ....         421 

"  Ah  !  would  to  heaven," 422 

"  Sometimes,  in  bitter  fancy,"  ....  423 
"  To-night  the  tempest  rages,"  .....  424 
"  Another  shriek  like  that,"  .....  425 
"  Again  the  tireless  winds,"  .....  426 
"Thank  Heaven,  a  lull," 427 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

"What  fancy," 428 

"  I  know  art  hardens,"  ......  429 

"  Yet,  love,  forgive,"          .           .           .           .           .           .  430 

"0!  for  some  spirit,"              .....  431 

"  There  is  a  sorrow,"           ......  432 

"  To  love  thee  absent,"            .....  433 

"  Why  should  I  cheat," 434 

"Ah!  let  me  live  on  memories,"        ....  435 

"  In  vain  to  thee,"   .  .  .  .  .  .  .436 

"  Time  shall  not  dry,"  ......  437 

"  I  do  not  sorrow,"  .......  438 

"I heard  a  voice,"         .           .           .           .           .           .  439 

"  Like  old  King  Hamlet," 440 

"  No  forward  step,"        .           .           .           .           .           .  441 

"I  will  not  blazon," 442 

"  As  a  sad  hermit,"        ......  443 

"  Only  through  this," 444 

"  Fate,  of  all  seasons,"  ......  445 

"  I  shall  be  faithful," 446 

"  I  have  not  turned,"    ......  447 

"Across  the  waters,"           ......  448 

"  Here  let  the  motions,"          .....  449 

"  All  the  world's  malice," 450 


THE  BETROTHAL: 

A    PLAY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


MARQUIS  DI  TIBURZZI, A  decayed  nobleman. 

COUNT  JURANIO, A  wealthy  nobleman. 

SALVATORE, His  kinsman. 

MARSIO, A  wealthy  merchant. 

PIETRO  Roao His  friend. 

PULTI, Servant  to  Marsio. 

COSTANZA, Daughter  to  the  Marquis. 

FILIPPIA, Her  cousin. 

MARCHIONESS  DI  TIBURZZI, Mother  to  Costanza. 

A  Priest,  a  Notary,  Guests,  Servants,  fyc. 
SCENE,  Tuscany. 


THE    BETROTHAL. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.     An  Apartment  in  the  MARQUIS  DI  TIBURZZI'S  Castle. 
Enter  the  MARQUIS  and  MARCHIONESS  DI  TIBURZZI. 

Marquis.    WHY  urge  forever  Marsio's  rich  estate  ? 
Wealth  is  not  sovereign.     Should  his  money  sprout, 
And  yield  a  thousand-fold,  it  could  not  change 
Its  master's  nature.     In  the  glare  of  gold 
Unnumbered  blemishes  oft  come  to  light, 
That  had  been  better  hidden  in  beggar's  rags. 

Marchioness.   What  faults  has  he  ? 

Marq.  It  matters  not. 

March.  Why  not  ? 

Marq.   If  I  dislike  the  man,  the  end  is  gained 
Without  a  summing  of  antipathies. 

March.    But  should  Costanza  love  him  ? 

Marq.  Bless  me,  madam  ! 

Am  I  an  oracle  ?     Your  questions  reach 
Beyond  my  thinking. 

March.  Stranger  things  have  been. 

The  maids  of  Greece,  for  all  their  dainty  tastes, 
Gambolled  with  Satyrs.     Men  can  never  know 

VOL.  n.  1 


2  THE    BETROTHAL. 

The  shifting  fancies  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Some  love  the  outer,  some  the  inner  man, 
And  some  the  garniture  which  fortune  gives  ; 
Some  love  to  rule,  others  to  be  enslaved  ; 
Some  love  for  pity,  some  affect  the  bold  ; 
Some  on  entreaty,  others  from  sheer  spite 
And  sturdy  opposition,  will  consume 
With  three-fold  fire.     This  slender  bodkin's  point 
Is  ample  basis  for  a  woman's  love. 

Marq.    Not  for  Costanza's.     Do   not  wrong   oui 

daughter 

With  empty  fables,  nor  impute  to  her 
The  melting  weakness  of  all  womankind. 
If  she  should  love  —  Poh  !  poh  !    I  squander  breath ; 
The  thought  is  monstrous. 

March.  Pray,  what  see  you,  sir, 

In  Signore  Marsio  —  think  him  what  you  may  — 
To  banish  him  beyond  the  pale  of  love  ? 
He  is  not  handsome  !     Well,  and  what  of  that  ? 
These  girls  have  apes  for  playthings.     Cannot  talk  ? 
She  '11  slit  his  tongue,  and  busy  her  for  hours 
With  her  new  human  magpie.     Here  's  a  husband 
To  banish  Maltese  cats  and  singing-birds ! 
What  if  she  love  ? 

Marq.  Her  love  would  sanctify 

More  vice  than  Marsio's  little  soul  can  hold.  — 
But  this  is  idle. 

March.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

First,  Marsio's  blemishes  ;  next,  your  dislikes  ; 
Then,  Marsio's  vices,  and  his  little  soul ! 
Why  do  you  hate  him  ? 

Marq.  Hate  is  not  the  word : 


THE    BETROTHAL.  3 

I  would  not  choose  him  for  my  daughter's  husband. 
First,  his  mean  birth.  — 

March.  Ho  !  pause  we  at  his  birth. 

Did  his  low  birth  beget  his  character  ? 
I  hold  you,  sir,  he  is  so  nobly  minded 
That  he  will  pick  an  empress  for  his  dam, 
If  you  give  choice. 

Marq.  Like  still  engenders  like  : 

JT  is  nature's  law.     The  rugged  mountain  horse 
Breeds  not  the  silk-skinned  barb  ;  the  shaggy  cur 
Litters  no  fine-limbed  greyhounds.     It  may  take 
Whole  ages  of  ancestral  blood,  to  crown 
A  long-drawn  race  with  one  true  gentleman. 
Think  you  his  peddling  stock  can  shape  a  mate 
For  her  whose  fathers,  at  great  Caesar's  voice, 
Out-flew  the  conquering  eagles  ? 

March.  There  it  is  ! 

Caesar  and  all  his  legions  !     We  have  stood 
A  hungry  siege  from  him  for  many  a  day. 
Would  he  had  strangled  at  his  birth, 
With  all  his  captains  ! 

Marq.  Why  this  argument  ? 

I  have  heard  ten  thousand,  in  my  time,  yet  never 
Knew  one  wry  notion  straightened  by  them  all. 
What  would  you  ? 

March.  Why  not  ask  me  that  before 

The  matter  smothered  in  the  argument  ? 

Marq.    Speak  ;  I  attend  you. 

March.  Should  Costanza's  eyes 

Have  found  some  merit,  unobserved  by  you, 
In  Signore  Marsio  —  should  it  so  have  wrought 
Upon  her  woman's  fancy  as  to  gain, 


4  THE    BETROTHAL. 

In  Caesar's  spite,  that  precious  heart  of  hers  — 
Would  you  oppose  her  choice  ? 

Marq.  Oppose  her  choice 

Why,  you  amaze  me.     Have  you  seen  good  grounds 
For  such  a  question  ? 

March.  I  have  seen  enough. 

I  have  observed  kind  looks  from  Marsio's  eyes 
By  echoing  blushes  answered  from  her  cheeks  ; 
I  have  —  Lord,  Lord  !  what  have  I  not  observed  ?  — 
Sufficient  to  have  bred  a  plague  of  love, 
If  love  were  catching. 

Marq.  This  is  very  strange. 

March.    No  ;    't  is  as  old  as  Adam.     Maids  will 

love, 

And  fathers  will  not  see  it.     From  these  signs, 
Knowing  our  daughter's  happiness  might  hang 
Upon  your  voice,  I  would  forestall  her  grief, 
By  timely  checks,  ere  love  has  grown  a  habit ; 
Or,  should  you  wish,  confirm  her  doubting  heart 
By  your  full  sanction. 

Marq.  Wonderful  indeed  ! 

She  fancy  Marsio !     Had  I  been  asked, 
I  'd  said  she  shunned  him. 

March.  No  unusual  trick 

Of  love-sick  girls.  —  But  here  Costanza  comes. 
Leave  her  to  me  —  nay  ;  if  you  question  her, 
You  '11  scorch  her  words  in  blushes. 

Marq.  As  you  witt 

You  are  wrong,  believe  me.     She  has  ever  borne 
So  plain  a  heart  to  me,  so  dutiful, 
So  zealous  to  fulfil  my  wish  as  never 
To  question  of  its  justice  —  yet  such  acts 
Performing  not  with  the  cold  hand  of  duty, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  5 

But  with  the  fiery  eagerness  of  love  — 
That  I  shall  feel  some  twinge  of  jealousy, 
If  she  has  ousted  me  from  my  fair  seat, 
Henceforth  a  stranger's,  without  common  notice. 
Question,  but  do  not  vex  her.     I  would  rather 
Your  keen  suspicion  had  o'ershot  its  mark, 
Than  that  my  daughter  should  have  wasted  love 
Upon  this  —  this  — 

March.  Noble,  thrice  noble  man  ; 

Half  deified  by  her  subliming  love  ! 

Marq.    I  have  no  heart  for  jesting.  [Exit.'} 

March.  Nor  for  acting : 

Your  feeble  nature  shifts  the  deed  on  me. 
(Enter  COSTANZA.) 

Costanza.    Where  went  my  father  ? 

March.  To  concoct  some  scheme 

About  a  penny-worth  of  musty  bread. 
It  takes  more  work,  to  live  this  starving  way, 
Than  would  be  used  in  earning  us  a  fortune. 
But  we  are  noble,  very  noble,  daughter  ; 
We  have  some  centuries  of  rich,  proud  blood, 
On  which  we  live,  and  therefore  need  not  labor. 
We  feed,  like  fleshy  men,  upon  our  fat, — 
Self-eating  cannibals. 

Cos.  Fasting  has  its  mirth, 

Feasting  its  sorrow. 

March.  Ay,  ay ;  much  the  mirth 

We  see  the  death's  head  grinning. 

Cos.  True,  my  mother ; 

Death  has  a  whisper  in  the  maddest  mirth 
Of  us  poor  mortals. 

March.  You  are  gloomy,  child. 

Cos.    No  more  than  usual.     'T  is  a  gloomy  thing 


6  THE    BETROTHAL. 

To  see  a  father,  so  deserving  love, 
Bowed  with  a  load  of  vulgar,  petty  cares  — 
Too  mean  to  tax  the  housewife  of  a  hind  — 
That  nip  and  pinch  him  into  actual  life, 
Giving  his  aching  mind  no  dreaming  pause 
'Twixt  day  and  day. 

March.  Of  all  disgusting  things 

Commend  me  to  our  old,  familiar  friend, 
Proud  poverty. 

Cos.  Would  I  could  lighten  it ! 

March.    And  so  you  can. 

Cos.  I!  how? 

March.  I  trow,  my  daughter, 

You  '11  be  no  victim,  no  burnt-offering, 
No  chattel,  traded  for  your  father's  peace  : 
No ;  let  us  starve,  drown,  hang  —  why,  what  care 

you? 

You  have  a  heart,  forsooth,  a  virgin  heart, 
Not  to  be  hung  on  matrimonial  shambles  ! 
In  faith,  you  are  right. 

Cos.  What  is  your  purpose,  mother  ? 

March.    There  's  Signore  Marsio  ;  do  you   fancy 
him  ? 

Cos.    I  never  weighed  my  feelings  for  him. 

March.  No  ? 

But  he  loves  you. 

Cos.  For  that  I  owe  him  thanks. 

March.    Now  —  do  you   mark  me  ?  —  should  you 

marry  him, 
We  are  rich  at  once. 

Cos.  That  never  crossed  my  mind. 

March.    It  has  ours. 

Cos.  "  Ours  "  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  7 

March.  Your  father's  and  my  own. 

Cos.    My  father  spoke  of  this  ? 

March.  Just  ere  he  left. 

Cos.   Does  he  desire  me  to  wed  Marsio  ? 

March.    You  know  your  father  far  too  well  for  that. 
He  would  not  have  you  wed  for  his  sake  only  ; 
Would  not  persuade  you,  press  you,  and  so  forth. 
With  such  spasmodic  eagerness,  with  such 
A  trembling  lip,  and  clutching  of  the  hands, 
He  says  these  things,  that  I,  who  know  his  ways, 
With  half  a  thought  can  fathom  his  desire. 

Cos.    Which  is  ?  — 

March.  That  we  should  want  no  longer. 

Cos.  How ! 

Wed  Marsio  ? 

March.  Not  unless  with  your  consent. 

Well,  would  you  try  it  ?     Tell  your  father,  then, 
You  love  rich  Marsio,  whose  countless  wealth 
Can  bribe  his  sorrow,  ease  his  shaking  mind, 
And  make  his  days  lapse  calmly  to  their  end  — 
Marsio,  whose  golden  finger  puts  to  flight 
Duns,  bailiffs,  tradesmen,  all  the  brood  of  want, 
And  makes  a  jest  of  every  former  grief 
To  talk  of  in  foul  weather.     Nay,  my  child  ; 
Breathe  not  a  word  of  this  :  say  simply  thus  — 
I  love  good  Marsio  ;  I  would  be  his  wife. 
You  '11  see  the  issue. 

Cos.  Signore  Marsio  stands 

Far  better  with  my  father  than  I  thought. 
Doubtless  there  is  some  good  in  Marsio  — 
In  Marsio  —  in  Marsio  — 

March.  Well,  well ! 

Why  do  you  dwell  upon  his  name  ? 


8  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Cos.  There  seems 

A  strangeness  in  it,  I  ne'er  marked  before. 

March.    You  will  attempt  this  little  loving  ruse  ? 

Cos.    Mother,  I  dare  not  tamper  with  the  love 
My  father  bears  nae. 

March.  Poh  !  't  is  but  a  trial. 

You  need  not  marry  Marsio,  for  all. 

Cos.    This  I  will  say  :  if  to  my  father's  mind 
Marsio  appear  a  proper  husband  for  me, 
And  Sigriore  Marsio  should  incline  to  me, 
I  will  accept  him. 

March.  -fjravely  spoken,  child  ! 

I  know  you  do  this  for  your  father's  sake  ; 
And  't  is  a  beautiful,  most  saint-like  act, 
On  which  the  angels  smile.      May  Heaven  reward 

you  ! 

Then,  in  Italy,  marrying  is  one  thing, 
Loving  is  another. 

Cos.  What  did  you  say  ? 

March.    You  will  find  out  ere  long.     But,  hark, 

Costanza ; 

If  you  are  resolute,  let  every  action, 
Which  falls  beneath  your  father's  eyes,  appear 
Full  of  kind  thoughts  for  Signore  Marsio. 

Cos.    I  feel  but  kindly  towards  him.  0,  my  mother 
If  he,  or  any  man  —  a  clown  —  a  fool  — 
More  hideous  than  the  nightmare,  crueller  than 
The  ragged  tooth  of  famine  — 

March.  Tut,  tut !  daughter, 

Marsio  is  none  of  these. 

Cos.  I  hope  not,  madam. 

Doubtless,  I  '11  learn  to  love  him  very  soon. 
It  seems  to  me,  duty  would  tutor  love, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  9 

At  the  first  moment  my  poor  father  smiled. 
Marsio  must  know  the  terms. 

March.  What  need  of  that  ? 

When  did  love  ever  chaffer  about  terms  ? 
I  '11  tell  him,  if  't  will  ease  you. 

Cos.  Let  us  go. 

My  father's  word  must  sanction  this  high  treason 
Against  the  sweet  dominion  of  god  Love.  — 
You  see  I  am  merry,  mother  ;  am  I  not  ? 

March.    Yes  ;  very  merry. 

Cos.  As  we  go  along, 

Give  me  a  catalogue  of  all  our  ills. 
Tell  o'er  my  father's  sufferings  ;  then  rehearse 
The  royal  qualities  of  Marsio's  gold. 
How  do  you  think  my  father's  face  would  look 
With  one  bright  smile  upon  it  ?     Do  you  know, 
'T  is  a  long,  dreary  age  since  I  beheld 
What  you  might  call  a  smile  upon  his  face  ? 
I  need  to  hear  these  things.     Think  you  this  mar 
riage 
Would  be  no  sin  against  my  better  nature  ? 

March.    Heaven  counsels  filial  love. 

Cos.  Yes  ;  you  shall  feast, 

And  wear  gay  clothes,  and  build  our  shattered  house, 
And  brush  the  cobwebs  from  our  ancestry,  — 
That  seem  to  suffer  like  decay  with  us,  — 
And  there  shall  be  no  name  in  Italy 
Prouder  than  the  Tiburzzi !     Did  you  think, 
When  you  first  saw  me  lying  in  my  cradle, 
An  impotent,  cross  bantling,  that  one  day 
Your  poor  Costanza  could  do  all  these  things  ? 


10  -  THE    BETROTHAL. 

I  know  you  did  not  —  ha,  ha  !     (Laughing. )    Woe  is 

me  ! 
Tears  are  close  neighbors  to  such  mirth  as  mine. 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE    H. 
Another  Apartment  in  the  Castle.     Enter  MABSIO. 

Marsio.     If  I   know  money  —  Heaven   knows   I 

should  — 

They  must  come  to  it.     Needy,  needy,  say  you  ? 
I  have  known  the  needy  murder  for  a  ducat : 
Lo  !  here  are  millions  ;  and  but  for  a  name. 
A  very  ancient,  very  noble  name, 
I  grant ;  but  somewhat  damaged  in  the  keeping.  — 
Easily  patched,  however,  easily  patched  with  gold. 
Join  Marsio's  riches  to  Tiburzzi's  name, 
And  who  can  stand  against  them  ?     But  the  name, 
Ungilt  and  naked,  is  an  empty  noise, 
Which  Marsio's  gold  —  Marsio's  hard,  solid  gold  — 
As  well  can  purchase  in  the  daily  market 
Where  parents  vend  their  marriageable  wares. 
Why  should  I  doubt  ?     There  's  nothing  like  a  heart 
To  chaffer  for.     I  never  bought  a  heart. 
Men  say  I  want  one.     Ha,  ha  !  how  they  lie  ! 

[Laughing.  ] 

'T  is  a  great  rock  on  which  all  commerce  wrecks. 
There  is  no  rival,  no  keen  moneyed  man, 
To  weigh  his  scrapings  'gainst  my  topmost  bid ; 
So  says  the  Marchioness  —  0,  pardon  me  — 
Our  mother,  I  should  say  ;  though  ne'ertheless 
A  marchioness  for  all  that,  Costanza  dear.  — 


THE    BETROTHAL.  11 

Conny,  and  Con,  and  Stanza,  when  you  please  me, 
Besides  a  hundred  other  sweet,  pet  names, 
To  come  up  on  occasion.     Ha  !  our  mother ! 
And  all  one  splendor  with  a  blaze  of  smiles  ! 

(Enter  the  MARCHIONESS.) 

I  guess  your  meaning. 

Marchioness.  Hist !  the  Marquis  comes. 

Show  no  surprise  ;  one  doubt  may  mar  the  whole. 
Hear,  ere  you  speak. 

Mar.  I  am  all  ears,  no  tongue. 

(Enter  the  MARQUIS.) 

Marquis.   Welcome,  friend  Marsio  ! 
Mar.  "  Friend  Marsio  !  " 

Well  spoken,  friend  Tiburzzi !  (Aside.)  Gracious  sir, 
Your  proud  addition  to  my  humble  name  — 

March.    Stoop  not  too  low,  or  you  may  never  rise. 

[Apart  to  MARSIO.] 

Mar.  —  My  deeds  shall  ratify. 
March.  Turned  just  in  time. 

[Aside.] 

Marq.    Frankness  is  best  — 

Mar.  The  coin  of  honesty  ! 

March.    For  Heaven  s  sake,  peace !     Art  talking 
for  a  wager  ?  [Apart  to  MARSIO.] 

Marq.  Signore,  it  seems  my  daughter  and  yourself, 
Unknown  to  me  —  and  therein  much  I  blame  you  — 
Have  leagued  your  hearts  — 

Mar.  What !  she  — 

March.  0,  silence,  silence  ! 

[Apart  to  MARSIO.] 


12  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.    You  would  excuse  her,  signore,  with  such 

reasons 

As,  to  the  partial  wits  of  lovers,  seem 
Both  law  and  right ;  on  me  they  fall  full  coldly. 
That  love,  which  breeds  such  ecstasy  in  you, 
To  me  is  breach  of  trust.     But  let  that  pass. 

Mar.    Against  your  word  — 

Marq.  Do  not  deceive  yourself; 

Hearts  will  make  way  against  ten  thousand  words. 

Mar.    Are  you  so  wilful  ?     Forward,  then.  [Aside.] 

March.  You  see, 

My  lord  but  seeks  our  daughter's  happiness. 

Marq.   Yes  ;  take  her,  sir.     No  foolish  whim  of 

mine 
Shall  stand  'twixt  heart  and  heart. 

Mar.  "  'Twixt  heart  and  heart !  " 

What  does  he  mean  ?    Well,  I  will  swallow  all. 

[Aside."] 

Your  frank  approval  stifles  my  poor  thanks. 
Let  me  repay  your  frankness  with  its  equal. 
No  man,  who  is  your  friend,  has  wanted  eyes 
To  see  how,  day  by  day,  that  ancient  wealth, 
Which  once  so  proudly  propped  your  mighty  name, 
Has  slipped  beneath  the  thing  it  should  support ; 
Till  all  the  glories  of  this  noble  house 
Seem  tottering  down  to  ruin  and  oblivion.  — 
Nay,  do  not  chafe  ;  I  cannot  choose  but  know  it. 

Marq.    "Know  it,  know  it!"  the  very  beggars 

know  it, 

And,  with  unbegging  laughter,  pass  me  by ! 
My  name  's  the  jest  of  all  this  mocking  land.  — 
The  blind,  dumb,  deaf,  conceive  it !     Idiots,  jays, 
Parrots,  have  wit  to  say,  "  Poor,  poor  Tiburzzi !  " 


THE    BETROTHAL.  13 

Mar.    I  would  not  ape  them. 

Marq.  0,  't  is  nothing  new : 

Heaven  makes  us  feel  our  chastenings  commonly. 
Of  all  realities,  the  reallest  thing  — 
Of  all  heart-sickening,  spirit-killing  things  — 
That  can  unnerve,  unsex,  and  bring  to  naught 
The  proudest  purposes  of  stubborn  strength, 
Making  brawn  Hercules  a  whining  baby  — 
The  very  top  and  crown  is  poverty ! 
It  feeds  on  hope,  it  glories  in  despair, 
It  saps  the  brave  foundations  of  the  will, 
It  turns  our  simple  faith  to  blasphemy, 
It  gnaws  its  way  into  the  very  spirit, 
And  with  a  weary  siege  starves  out  the  soul, 
Sending  to  judgment  that  bright  denizen 
So  changed  in  hue,  so  fallen  from  its  estate, 
That  Heaven,  in  the  poor,  warped,  and  shivering 

thing, 
Can  scarcely  recognize  its  handiwork  I 

Mar.   My  purse  shall  aid  you.     Use  it,  without 

stint, 
In  common  with  me. 

Marq.  Pshaw  !  I  need  it  not. 

I  and  my  wants  have  grown  such  intimates 
That  'twould  seem  strange  to  part  us.     Prisoned 

men 

Have  wept  at  parting  from  their  old,  dull  cells  : 
So  custom,  I  doubt  not,  may  reconcile 
A  father  to  an  unconfiding  child. 
I  can  take  naught  of  him.  [Aside.     Walks  apart.} 

March.  Urge  him  no  more  : 

His  mind  is  troubled  with  an  idle  fancy 
About  Costanza's  want  of  trust  in  him. 


14  THE    BETROTHAL. 

He  has  scarce  patience,  now,  to  speak  with  her : 
But  he  will  change,  next  moon.  [Apart  to  MARSIO.] 

Marq.  Pray  treat  her  well, 

Pray  treat  her  well,  good  signore  Marsio  : 
One  sin  makes  not  a  sinner.     She  is  worth  it ;  — 
Yes,  yes,  although  she  'd  not  confide  in  me. 
But  then,  you  know,  we  fathers  have  no  vows 
Like  you  hot  lovers  ;  have  no  skill,  to  show 
The  depths  and  heights  of  customary  feeling, 
With  high-spiced  words.     Love  grows  a  gray-beard 

in  us, 

And  lacks  the  prattle  of  the  winged  boy. 
Pray  treat  her  well. 

Mar.  I  '11  have  no  other  care. 

A  precious  store  ne'er  wants  a  zealous  ward. 

Marq.   Let  not  that  promise  rust. 

March.  Our  daughter  waits. 

Signore,  go  on  before.     What,  what,  so  tardy  ! 
Does  your  love  use  a  herald  ? 

Mar.  By  your  leave,  then. 

[Exit.] 

March.    Stands  it  not  as  I  said  ? 

Marq.  Is  she  my  daughter  ? 

March.    If  she  is  mine. 

Marq.  That  strain  I  cannot  doubt : 

There  the  blood  cries. 

March.  If  it  amuses  you, 

Pray  rail  away.     There  ;s  many  an  out-door  saint 
Blows  oif  his  wolfish  humors  at  his  wife, 
And  paces  forth  a  lamb. 

Marq.  Love  Marsio  ?  —  No  ! 

What,  sell  herself?  —  pah  !  pah  !     Come,  let  us  in. 
This  shivering  on  the  brink  is  worse  than  drowning. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  15 

I  '11  link  these  lovers.     When  the  knot  is  tied, 

The  galling  process  of  the  action  stops, 

And  I  may  rub  my  fretted  hands  at  ease. 

I  '11  not  be  tortured.  —  Marry,  marry  shall  they  ; 

And  sooner  than  they  think  !    Still  waiting,  madam  ? 

Heavens !  what  a  new  Tiburzzi  fortune  sends  ! 

[Exeunt."] 


SCENE  HI. 
Another  Apartment  in  the    Castle.    Enter  COSTANZA  and 

FlLIPPIA. 

Filippia.   Would  I  wed  Marsio  ?    Would  I  wed 
the  — 

Costanza.  There ! 

Your  common  phrases  have  sufficient  strength, 
Without  appealing  to  another  world. 

Fil.    Would  I  wed  Marsio  ?  (Laughing.)  Why,  't  is 

something  new 

To  hear  you  jesting,  cousin  !     Would  I  wed 
A  man  who  ever  thrusts  his  money  forth 
As  his  best  quality  ?  —  a  man  who  feels 
No  inward  stir  of  man's  nobility, 
But,  like  the  poor  ass  with  his  golden  freight, 
Is  worth  just  what  he  carries  ?     Then  he  has 
A  wicked,  subtle,  and  consuming  devil, 
Pent  in  the  corners  of  his  red-rimmed  eyes, 
That 's  always  dodging,  like  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Angry  but  fearful. 

Cos.  What  a  character ! 

Fil.   'T  is  Marsio  to  an  eye-lash. 


16  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Cos.  Your  wild  tongue 

Ever  outruns  your  stricter  meaning,  cousin. 
I  shall  wed  Marsio. 

Fil.  What  a  woful  sigh  I 

That  is  the  tone  Gonsalvo  gave  me,  when, 
Tearing  his  tattered  run0 —  worn  for  the  nonce  — 
He  cried,  "  I  shall  drink  poison  !  "     But  he  did  not. 

Cos.    But  I  will. 

Fil.  Drink  poison  ? 

Cos.  No  ;  wed  Marsio. 

Fil.    The  poison  in  another  shape. 

Cos.  Fie!  fie! 

fi 

Are  quibbling  jests  the  best  advice  you  give  ? 

Fil.    'T  was  jest  chase  jest.     You  are  not  serious  ? 

Cos.    Indeed  I  am. 

Fil.  Then  here  's  a  weeping  matter. 

Cos.    Marsio  has  made  an  offer  for  my  hand, 
Which  I  intend  accepting. 

Fil.  0,  you  shall  not, 

You  shall  not,  by  my  faith  ! 

Cos.  By  mine  I  shall. 

Fil.   I  hate  him,  hate  him  ! 

Cos.  I  'm  not  jealous  of  you. 

Fil.   Who  ;s  jesting,  now  ? 

Cos.  You  've  taught  me  your  own  tongue. 

Fil.   I  see  through  this.      You  marry  that  base 

wretch  — 

That  sallow,  spider-legged,  bow-shouldered  wretch  — 
That  man  of  money  —  that  great  human  purse  — 
That  — that - 

Cos.  Hie  forward,  forward,  cousin  dear  ! 

I  would  not  have  you  keep  such  humors  to  yourself; 
They  might  breed  inward  danger. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  17 

Fil.  Out  upon  you  ! 

Your  father's  wants  have  driven  you  to  this  end. 
You  should  not  dare  —  I  say,  you  should  not  dare, 
If  famine  wrestled  with  us  throat  to  throat  — 
Offer  the  holiest  portion  of  your  nature 
To  this  gold  calf.     'T  will  have  a  grievous  answer, 
One  day,  Costanza ;  for  't  is  mortal  sin 
To  strike  at  the  dim  instincts  of  the  heart. 
Why  are  you  weeping  ?     Cousin,  dear  Costanza, 
The  sun  shines  upon  nothing  that  I  love 
As  I  love  you.     That 's  generous  ;  smile  again.  — 
But,  lo  !  the  gentle  lover  I  lo  !  sweet  Marsio  ! 
Dragging  his  fingers  o'er  the  entrance  wall  - 
Like  a  belated  school-boy  ! 

Cos.  Cousin,  cousin ! 

Fil.   He  sees  you  — blushes  !     Ay :  by  my  faith, 

blushes, 

Through  all  his  leathern  skin,  from  ear  to  chin ! 
Come,  that  is  cheering  !     Marsio  can  blush. 

Cos.    Do  leave,  Filippia. 

Fil.      ^  III  dare  not  leave. 

Look  to  your  trade,  Costanza.     Push  him  sharply. 
He  '11  get  the  better  of  you.     I  '11  be  witness  ; 
And  if  he  slip  one  tittle,  we  will  close 
Upon  him  roundly.     Tell  him  hearts  are  dear 
This  season  ;  the  supply  of  maiden  hearts 
Has  dwindled  down  ;  he  may  have  widows'  cheaper ; 
Old  maidens'  for  the  asking.     Money  's  plenty, 
And  begs  for  usury.     Nay,  mark  these  things  ; 
He  '11  trick  you  else.     We  must  protect  our  interest. 

Cos.  Have  done  !  have  done  ! 
(Enter  MAESIO.) 

Good  welcome,  sir ! 

VOL.  II.  2 


18  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marsio.  I  thank  you. 

A  fair  day,  lady  ! 

Fil.  Dare  the  knave  say  that, 

With  such  a  falling-weather  face  ?     Perhaps, 
Some  day,  he  '11  find  I  'm  not  invisible,  — 
The  ill-bred  cur  !         [Aside.] 

Mar.  May  we  converse  alone  ? 

Fil.    Better  and  better  !     He  has  seen  my  ears  ; 
I '11  show  my  tongue,  next.      [Aside.  Seats  her  self  apart.] 

Cos.  Signore  Marsio  — 

Mar.    Yes,  lady,  yes.  —  I  have  a  mortal  dread 
Of  girls  and  babies.  [Aside.] 

Cos.  You  would  speak  with  me  ? 

Mar.    Ay ;    if  I   could.      [Aside.]     Has   not  your 

mother  —  Pshaw  ! 

I  came  to  lay  my  fortune  at  your  feet ; 
And  I  will  hold  it  doubled  fifty  times, 
If  you  bestow  one  smile  upon  the  act. 

ML   Prolific  smile  !  [Aside.] 

Cos.  Sir,  if  my  simple  smile  — 

Fil.    Or  my  compounded  laughter,  shout  on  shout. 

[Aside.] 

Cos.   This  is  deceit.         [Aside.] 

Mar.  0,  horror,  what  a  strait  I 

Never  a  word !     Her  silence  will  upset  me. 
Would  she  might  fall  to  cursing !  [Aside.] 

Fil.  Conny,  dear, 

A  million,  Conny  ;  'tis  well  worth  a  million. 

Mar.   What  means  yon  lady  ? 

Fil.  You  shall  see,  anon.     [Aside.] 

Cos.    'T  would  pose  my  cousin,  signore  Marsio, 
To  show  a  meaning  in  one  half  she  says. 

Mar.   Your  servant,  lady.  [Bowing.] 


THE    BETROTHAL.  19 

ML  Of  the  latest  date.        [Curtseying.] 

Mar.    Here  's  my  excuse.          [Pointing  to  COSTANZA.] 
Fil.  A  fair  excuse,  indeed  : 

I  know  no  fairer,  sir. 

Mar.  I  said  not  so  : 

You  might  teach  schoolmen,  if  you  knew  yourself. 
Fil.   Well  done  !     We  get  on  bravely.         [Aside.] 
Mar.  Gentle  lady, 

Our  business  waits.  {.To  COSTANZA.] 

Fil.  There  the  mart  speaks  again.     [Aside.} 

Cos.   Has  not  my  mother  told  you  of  the  terms 

On  which  I  listen  to  your  suit  ? 
Mar.  She  has  — 

0,  golden  chance  !  here  comes  the  Marchioness  1 

I'd  have  gone  mad,  ere  long.  [Aside.] 

(Enter  the  MARQUIS  and  MARCHIONESS.) 

Marquis.  Daughter  Costanza, 

Do  you  love  signore  Marsio  ? 

Cos.  I  hope 

To  love  him  better,  sir. 

Marchioness.  Well  said,  well  said  ! 

Love  's  but  a  baby,  Hymen  is  a  boy  ; 
He  grows  apace  in  wedlock.  —  Well  said,  daughter! 
This  coyness  is  the  privilege  of  maids  : 
Do  not  compel  her  to  a  public  blush. 

[Apart  to  the  MARQUIS,  who  walks  up  the  stage,  gloomily.'] 

Cos.   How  sad  my  father  seems  ! 

March.  JT  is  very  natural ; 

He  parts  from  you  ;  but  it  is  like  the  parting 
Of  a  young  twig,  that,  when  it  sunders,  adds 
A  vigorous  life  to  the  old  parent  tree. 
Think  of  that,  daughter. 


20  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Cos.  But  the  twig  will  wither.  — 

So  be  it,  though,  if  it  revive  the  tree. 

Marq.    You  would  wed  signore  Marsio  ? 

Gos.  I  will  wed, 

With  your  approval,  signore  Marsio. 

Mar.   It  irks  me  much  that  you  must  bare  your 

heart ; — 
Both  irks  and  pleases. 

March.  Are  these  questions  decent  ? 

[Apart  to  the  MARQUIS.] 

Fil.     She    changes   words,    and    never    answers 

straight. 

She 's  mad  for  misery.     There  's  something  wrong. 
If  I  but  dared  —  I  will  —  (Aside.)  My  lord,  my  lord  — 

Marq.    She  has  declared  it.     Take   her,  signore, 

take  her ! 

And  may  she  never  want  the  duteous  love 
A  wife  should  show  a  husband  !     May  she  lean, 
In  an  unbroken  confidence,  upon 
The  upright  manhood  she  has  found  in  you ; 
And  may  you  never  know  what  bitterness 
Burns  in  the  silent  chambers  of  a  heart 
That  loves,  yet  cannot  trust !  God  bless  you,  child  ! — 
Yea,  give  your  husband  all  you  held  from  me  I 


THE    BETROTHAL.  21 


ACT    II. 

SCENE   I.      The  Park  of  the  MARQUIS   DI  TIBURZZI.     Enter 
JURANIO  and  SALVATORE. 

Juranio.    WHOSE  grounds  are  these  ? 

Salvatore.  The  Marquis  di  Tiburzzi's  — 

A  sorry  sequel  to  an  ancient  stock, 
Whose  wide  dominion  once  outstretched  our  sight. 
Alas  !  for  him,  poor  man,  malicious  fortune 
Threw  all  the  choicest  of  her  random  smiles 
Upon  the  wrong  end  of  his  famous  race, 
And  now  mocks  him  with  what  his  fathers  were. 

Ju.    A  pretty  place  !     Some  heritage  of  beauty 
Yet  harbors  here.    Mark  how  the  clustered  blossoms 
Star  the  dark  back-ground  of  yon  shady  wood. 

Sal.    0  !  yes  ;  but  mark  how  jealous  avarice 
Has  shorn  the  chiefest  saplings  to  the  root. 

Ju.   Yet  spared  us  every  flower.     Praise  be  to 

Heaven  ! 

Their  beauty  is  not  marketable.     See, 
A  living  bower,  a  bower  of  growing  vines, 
All  carpeted  with  last  year's  fallen  leaves  ! 

Sal.    A  thrifty  thought !  The  very  dead  are  used. 
That  hint  was  stolen  from  Egypt,  where  they  burn 
Their  spicy  ancestors.     'T  were  a  proud  thing, 
To  sit  down  at  a  fire  of  Ptolemies, 
With  Cleopatra  for  a  back-log. 

Ju.  Ugh ! 


22  THE    BETROTHAL. 

You  would  put  out  the  harmony  of  heaven 

With  your  great  sprawling  jokes.  The  hand  of  taste, 

Making  best -use  of  few  materials, 

Is  here. 

Sal.     The  hand  of  woman. 

Ju.  Worse  and  worse ! 

I  '11  fly  you,  shortly. 

Sal.  'T  would  confess  your  devil, 

To  fly  at  holy  names.     Why  do  you  shun 
These  dainty  blossoms  of  humanity 
With  such  stern  care  ?  —  So  ho  !  run,  run  for  life  ! 
There  go   two   maids  —  two   full-blown,   dangerous 

maids  — 
Hide  you,  sir  modesty  ! 

Ju.  You  know  them  maids  ? 

Sal.    I  take  them  so  on  credit. 

Ju.  Save  you,  save  you ! 

Good  lady-broker,  you  will  one  day  fail 
From  such  long  credits. 

Sal.  See,  they  make  this  way. 

Here  comes  the  goddess  of  your  living  bower. 

Ju.    Which  one  ? 

Sal.  The  shorter. 

Ju.  No  ;  the  taller  one. 

Sal.    How  know  you  that  ? 

Ju.  I  trace  her  little  fingers 

In  the  soft  curvings  of  each  vine. 

Sal.  Ho  !  ho  I      (Laughing.) 

Ju.    I  '11  bet  my  Arab  —  saddle,  spurs,  and  all  — 
Against  your  empty  laugh,  those  cunning  girls 
Are  plotting  to  ensnare  some  luckless  man : 
I  see  such  malice  in  your  small  one's  eyes. 

Sal.   Done  ! 


THE    BETROTHAL.  '26 

Ju.  Done  !  —  Come  hide. 

Sal.  A  mere  excuse  for  running, 

You  arrant  fly-frock ! 
Ju.  Here,  behind  the  bower. 

[They  secrete  themselves.] 

(Enter  COSTANZA  and  FILIPPIA.) 

Costanza.    Press  me  no  more  ;  my  motives  are  my 

own. 
You  grant  me  judgment  ? 

Filippia.  More  than  you  grant  me. 

You  have  some  cloudy  fancy  in  your  brain, 
That  needs  but  airing, —  some  weak,  flimsy  notion, 
That  common  reason  would  dry  up  at  once. 

Cos.    You  rate  me  poorly,  cousin. 

Fil.  There  again ! 

You  would  be  off.     Stick  to  the  text,  Costanza. 
Do  you  love  Marsio  ? 

Cos.  Would  I  wed  him  else  ? 

Fil.    You  dare  not  answer  strictly. 

Cos.  Why  then  ask  ? 

Fil.    I  know  you  do  not.     'T  is  not  in  your  nature 
To  fall  so  meanly.     0  !  be  warned  in  time. 
The  twin-born  heart  to  whom  you  owe  allegiance, 
To  whom,  perforce,  you  must  surrender  love, 
Will  track  you  out  at  last.     How  fearful,  then, 
To  perish  piecemeal  with  a  smothered  passion, 
Or  —  I  will  not  repeat  it :  't  was  a  story 
Old  at  the  flood. 

Cos.  Here  I  dare  answer  strictly. 

If  you  will  not  allow  me  Marsio, 
At  least,  I  love  no  other. 

Fil.  But  you  will  — 


24  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Nay,  never  raise  your  brows  —  you  will,  I  say, 
Fall  in  a  frenzy  of  outrageous  love 
With  some  stern,  mulish  creature,  like  yourself, 
Who  swears  he  '11  wed  the  blackest  blackamoor, 
And   will  —  that    will   he  !  —  though   the   heavens 

should  fall! 

Tell  me,  Costanza,  —  toll  me,  darling  cousin,  — 
What  are  your  motives  in  this  strange  affair  ? 

Cos.    Then  will  you  cease  your  torments  ? 

FiL  Ay  ;  and  vow 

To  keep  good  counsel. 

Cos.  Nor  by  word  or  deed 

Again  oppose  my  purpose  ? 

FiL  Yes,  to  that ; 

But  't  is  a  bitter  contract. 

Cos.  Let  us  walk  : 

The  story  is  a  long  one.     [They  walk  up  the  stage.] 

Ju.  Salvatore, 

This  eavesdropping  is  scarcely  honorable. 

Sal.    What  a  fine  moral  sense  !     Just  as  you  lose 
The  last  faint  whisper  of  their  pretty  talk, 
Up  starts  indignant  honor. 

Ju.  Ah  !  her  voice 

Held  honor  spell-bound.     Did  you  mark,  with  me, 
How  the  low  music  trickled  from  her  lips  ? 
All  heaven  was  listening  to  her,  why  not  we  ? 

Sal.    Which  one  set  heaven  agog  ? 

Ju.  The  taller  one. 

Sal.    The  small  one  spoke  the  more. 

Ju.  More,  but  less  valued. 

The  other's  phrases  served  to  bind  together, 
As  baser  metal  solders  sovereign  gold, 
The  broken  links  of  her  harmonious  thoughts. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  25 

Sal.    Zounds  !  are  you  mad  ? 

Ju.  I  know  not  what  I  am  : 

I  am  something  I  was  not  an  hour  ago. 

Sal.    Unhappy  idiot ! 

Ju.  See,  see,  she  walks ! 

Sal.    A  wonderful  exploit ! 

Ju.  I  must  address  her. 

Sal.    Fellow,  there  are  two.      To  my  unbiassed 

eyes, 

The  smaller  is  the  fairer.  Let  us  leave, 
As  partial  penance  for  our  vulgar  fault. 
Will  you  not  come  ? 

Ju.  No  ;  I  must  speak  to  her. 

Sal.    That  were  ill-bred. 

Ju.  I  '11  frame  new  codes  of  manners. 

Fair  lady,  by  your  leave  —  [Advancing  to  COSTANZA.] 

Sal.  Nay,  be  not  startled. 

'T  is  but  a  simple  kinsman  of  my  own, 
A  poor  brain-darkened  lunatic  ;  but  harmless, 
Quite  harmless  to  a  lady.     Pray  you  know  him  ; 
The  Count  Juranio  —  once  a  wiser  man. 

[JUKANIO  bows.] 

Ju.    And  here  his  cousin,  signore  Salvatore, 

[SALVATORE  bows.] 

A  world-wide  jester,  a  professed  buffoon  ; 
The  globe  's  his  bauble,  all  mankind  his  mark  ; 
Each  word  of  his  a  jest,  or  meant  for  such. 
A  cunning  ferret  after  doubtful  phrases, 
A  subtle  reasoner  upon  groundless  proofs, 
A  deep  inquirer  into  shallowness, 
A  dangerous  friend,  a  harmless  enemy  ; 
His  own  best  jest,  oftener  laughed  at  than  with. 


26 


THE    BETROTHAL. 


Weigh  well  your  words,  give  him  no  cavilling  point, 
And  you  are  safe. 

Fil.  Two  weighty  characters  ! 

Cos.    What  mean  you,  gentlemen  ?  —  You  should 

be  such 
By  dress,  if  not  by  manners. 

Ju.  We  —  I  —  I  - 

What  would  we,  Salvatore  ? 

Sal.  We  would  know 

The  way  to  town. 

Fil.  Why,  all  the  steeples  stare 

Above  yon  hill. 

Sal.  Ah  !  yes. —  True  —  true,  indeed  — 

I  see  —  What  would  we,  Count  Juranio  ? 
There  is  an  awful  mystery  here,  which  I 
Would  fain  explain,  if  we  might  meet  again. 

[Apart  to  FILIPPIA.] 

Fil.    A  mystery  !    How,  meet  me  ?     I  cannot  tell 
But  I  may  often  ramble  hereabout. 

[Apart  to  SALVATORE.] 

Sal.    Our  ways  are  doubtful :    odder  things  have 

been 
Than  two  chance  meetings.  [Apart  to  FILIPPIA.] 

Ju.  Has  my  tongue  strayed  off?     [Aside.] 

Lady,  from  that  small  spring,  the  human  heart, 
Arise  a  thousand  swelling  impulses, 
Each  one  a  mystery  to  the  sober  brain : 
'T  were  vain  to  ask  why  we  do  thus  and  thus, 
Why  crush  that  good  intent,  and  rear  this  wrong, 
While  the  poor  reason,  that  would  fain  inquire, 
Is  impotent  to  rule.     ;T  was  such  an  impulse 
Drove  me  to  what  I  did ;  which,  being  done, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  2T 

I  forge  no  false  excuse,  but  simply  beg 
Your  gentlest  censure. 

Cos.  Sir,  a  fault  confessed 

Pardons  itself  one  half.     I  will  not  grudge 
A  full  forgiveness,  if  you  ask  it  of  me. 

Ju.    I  do,  most  humbly.     It  is  not  my  wont 
To  sue  for  breach  of  manners. 

Sal.  That  I  swear  ! 

He  was  the  flower  of  distant  etiquette 
To  all  things  feminine. 

Cos.  Nor  are  my  manners 

Of  the  sour,  formal  cast  that  freezes  back 
The  generous  feelings  of  o'erflowing  nature, 
And  bars  the  way  between  our  hearts  and  lips  ; 
Nor  —  nor  —  Indeed  I  know  not  what  I  say  — 
I  talk  at  random.     Pray  you,  leave  me,  sir : 
You  trifle  with  me. 

Ju.  Lady,  are  you  just  ? 

Cos.    0,  heaven  I  I  am  not ;  neither  to  myself, 
Nor  those  who  own  my  duty.     Say  no  more  ; 
But  leave  me,  leave  me ! 

Ju.  I  obey  ;  how  sadly ! 

May  we  not  meet  once  more  ? 

Cos.  No  ;  never,  never ! 

[Exit  with  FILIPPIA.] 

Sal.    Gods  !  we  are  all  mad  together ! 

Ju.  "  Never,  never  !  " 

Sal.    You  lost  your  Arab. 

Ju.  Did  I  ?  —  "  Never,  never  !  " 

Sal.    Ay  ;  but  you  did. 

Ju.  7T  is  granted.  —  "  Never,  never  !  " 

[Exit.     SALVATORE following  him  amazedly.'} 


28  THE    BETROTHAL. 

SCENE  n. 

The  House  of  MARSIO.     Enter  MAESIO. 

Marsio.   Where  I  had  purposed  to  court,  beg,  and 

bribe  — 

To  out-scheme  Machiavelli,  and  so  tug 
Against  the  disadvantages  of  birth  and  rank, 
That,  by  sheer  strength  and  resolute  force  of  will, 
I  hoped  to  barely  conquer — they  at  once 
Thrust  the  fair  prize  in  my  astonished  arms, 
Blow  all  my  crafty  net-works  to  the  wind, 
And  half  undo  me  with  sheer  wonderment. 
They  say  she  loves  me.  —  Hum  !   I  '11  think  of  that : 
It  looks  suspicious.  —  Nonsense,  Marsio  ! 
Hold  up  thy  head  !     Did  they  not,  upon  'Change, 
Marvel  at  thy  advancement  ?    Ah  I  did  not 
That  sneering  beggar,  Volio,  who  can  boast 
Some  half-score  drops  of  gentle  blood  — 
Who  never  condescended  —  bless  his  stars  !  — 
To  speak  with  thee  ;  —  did  not  that  ragged  wretch  — 
Ha !  ha !     I  watched  him  from  behind  a  pillar, 
Close,  very  close,  as  't  was  rehearsed  to  him  — 
Did  not  even  he  turn  blue  with  choking  envy  ? 
Swore  't  was  a  lying  scandal ;  but  no  less 
Bowed  his  majestic  forehead  to  his  belt 
When  next  we  met  ?     Lord  bless  us  !  and  he  spoke, 
So  sweetly  spoke,  in  such  a  winning  whisper, 
Of  the  "  dear  Marquis,"  of  the  "  dear  Marchioness  ; 
Hoped  the  fair  lady  of  my  heart  was  well ; 
When  would    my  marriage    be  ? "    And    then    he 
took 


THE    BETROTHAL.  29 

So  grave  and  formal  a  farewell  of  me  !  — 
The  devil  claw  him ! 

(Enter  PIETB.O  ROGO.) 

How  now,  Master  Rogo  ? 

Eogo.    So  !   How  now,  Master  Marsio  ?  Men  have 

said 

Your  grand  betrothal  has  upset  your  brains  :  — 
By  heaven  !  I  think  so.     "  Master  Rogo,"  sooth  ! 
Why,  yesterday  'twas  "  Good  friend  Pietro;" 
And  "  Kinsman  Pietro  ;"  and  "  Pietro, 
I  have  a  secret  for  you  !  "     Out  upon  you  ! 
I  thought  to  hear  some  folly,  but  your  style 
Out-fools  conceit ! 

Mar.  I  prithee  be  not  rude  ; 

Nor  so  presume  on  former  fellowship  — 

Rogo.   Where  are  your  wits  ? 

Mar.  Cease  your  blunt  manner,  sir ! 

Eogo.   What? 

Mar.  Cease,  I  say ! 

Eogo.  The  world  is  full  of  marvels  ; 

I  myself  can  dream  some  stretch  of  wonder, 
And  they  say  poets,  and  such-like  madmen,  can, 
By  some  shrewd  knack,  make  that  appear  as  truth 
Which  really  is  not ;  but  roll  all  the  poets, 
All  my  wild  dreams,  all  the  earth's  prodigies, 
In  one  huge  mass,  and  Marsio  makes  them  tame. 

Mar.    Good  Master  Rogo  — 

Eogo.  Pietro  is  my  name. 

No  man  shall  master  me. 

Mar.  Pietro,  then ; 

Since  yesterday,  as  you  observe,  a  change 
Has  come  across  me.     Yesterday  we  met 


30  THE    BETROTHAL. 

As  Marsio,  the  merchant,  and  his  friend  : 
To-day  I  represent  the  last  great  branch 
Of  the  Tiburzzi ;  and  as  such  expect 
That  due  observance  of  my  rank  and  person 
Which  it  is  but  my  duty  to  demand, 
And  is  as  much  your  duty  to  bestow. 

JRogo.    You  thrice-dyed  fool !     With  the  Tiburzzi's 

daughter, 

Did  you  receive  the  blood  of  all  the  race  ? 
Their  gentle  culture,  their  refined  politeness, 
Which  wins,  but  never  asks,  a  man's  respect  ? 
I  tell  you,  Marsio,  you  have  climbed  a  tower, 
To  make  your  shameless  folly  further  seen. 
Come,  come,  be  ruled. 

Mar.  Begone,  sir !    Leave  my  house  ! 

I  wear  a  sword. 

Eogo.  A  lucky  thought,  my  lord, — 

My  bold  Tiburzzi !    By  the  devil's  beard, 
I  '11  try  your  lordship's  hand  at  noble  arts  ! 
When  we  get  through  with  this,  we  '11  run  a  tilt. 
Draw  ! 

Mar.    Will  you  leave  me  ? 

Rogo.  Draw,  my  noble  sir, 

Or  I  will  thresh  your  noble  lordship's  shins 
With  a  good  Milan  blade.     The  devil  take  me, 
If  I  endure  your  airs  !    I  '11  make  a  hole 
To  let  discretion  in  you.     Draw,  you  oaf! 

[They  fight.     ROGO  drives  MAKSIO  round  the  stage.] 
Your  lordship  gives,  gives  to  this  vulgar  man  ?  — 
That 's  charitable  !  [MAHSIO  is  disarmed.] 

Now,  sir,  were  it  not 
For  the  huge  sin  of  surfeiting  the  devil, 
With  such  a  lump  of  folly,  I  would  let 


THE    BETROTHAL.  31 

Your  windy  soul  out  of  some  ugly  gash.  — 
Nay,  you  're  not  off  yet.     Promise  me  to  be 
My  old,  dear  friend,  Marsio  of  yesterday, 
Or  I  will  send  that  semblance  of  my  friend, 
Into  whose  body  you  have  falsely  crept, 
To  sup  black  Pluto  !  —  Swear  !  or,  on  my  life, 
Your  shrift  is  short  ! 

Mar.  Come,  come,  friend  Pietro. 

Rogo.  You  are  improving.     Swear  it ! 

Mar.  Well,  I  swear. 

Rogo.   Never  to  be  a  lord  to  me  ? 

Mar.  No,  never. 

Rogo.   Ever  to  listen  to  my  wholesome  counsel, 
Though  it  be  rugged  as  the  road  to  heaven  ; 
And  to  receive  it,  if  your  candid  judgment 
Can  bring  no  cause  against  it  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  and  yes. 

Take  your  cursed  rapier  from  my  throat ! 

Rogo.  'T  was  blessed 

To  your  salvation,  most  ungrateful  man. 
Go  up,  old  Milan :  when  you  are  sunned  again, 
May  you  be  umpire  in  as  good  a  cause ! 
Now  of  this  marriage  ;  is  the  rumor  true  ? 

Mar.    Ay  ;  have  you  aught  to  say  ? 

Rogo.  Against  the  fact, 

Nothing.  —  Though,  in  this  easy-jogging  land, 
Marriage  seems  quite  superfluous  to  me  :  — 
And  the  same  cause  which  makes  a  single  state 
Endurable,  should  scare  us  from  a  wedding. 
Well,  let  that  go.     You  are  a  wealthy  man, 
And  must  have  lineal  heirs  —  either  your  own, 
Or  seeming  so  —  undoubtedly,  your  wife's  — 
To  squander  your  slow  millions  in  a  day. 


32  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Mar.    Are  the  sour  sneers  of  an  old  sapless  miser 
What  you  call  counsel  ? 

Eogo.  Patience,  patience,  friend. 

Who  is  the  maid  ? 

Mar.  Had  my  heart  rhetoric, 

'T  would  answer  in  fit  phrases. 

Eogo.  Bless  my  soul ! 

He  's  metamorphosed  to  a  first-class  lover  ! 
You  have  a  tongue,  perchance  ? 

Mar.  The  fair  Costanza — 

Costanza  di  Tiburzzi  is  the  name  — 

Eogo.    They  doused  her  with  at  baptism.     Fair, 
you  say  ? 

Mar.   Fair  as  —  as  — 

Eogo.  What  ? 

Mar.  As  any  thing  you  choose. 

Her  charms  outsoar  my  fancy  ;  fly  your  own  : 
Come,  Pietro. 

Eogo.  Ecstatic  driveller  !     Fair  ? 

I  like  not  fair.     The  ugly  ones  are  best : 
They  bear  the  patent  of  their  chastity 
In  their  brown  skins,  in  their  green,  filmy  eyes, 
Their  clawish  hands,  their  broad,    earth-flattening 

feet, 

Their  crooked  ankles  and  their  camel  backs. 
Without  temptation,  there  can  be  no  sin  ; 
But  where  the  fruit  is  jolly,  and  hangs  out 
As  a  ripe  challenge  to  all  passers  by, 
Heaven  only  knows  who  tastes,  who  handles  it, 
And  who  goes  harmless  past ! 

Mar.  Pietro  Rogo, 

Is  there  one  subject  under  the  mad  moon 
Too  weak  to  found  an  argument  upon  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  33 

I  '11  venture,  with  your  talents,  you  can  prove, 

Against  all  comers,  that  incontinence 

Is  but  a  wide  benevolence  ;  that  murder  — 

Under  the  million  given  circumstances 

With  which  your  nimble  wit  shall  hedge  it  in  — 

Is  a  humane  achievement ;  theft,  an  instinct  ; 

Cheating,  a  thrifty  thoughtfulness  of  self; 

And  so  forth,  on  through  all  the  deadly  sins. 

Poh  !  poh  !  what  stuff  you  talk  ! 

Eogo.  Back  to  our  subject. 

Costanza  di  Tiburzzi  should  be  daughter 
To  an  old  dwindled  noble  of  that  name  : 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mar.         It  is. 

Eogo.  They  want  your  wealth. 

Mar.    And  they  shall  have  it  1    Our  long-shadowed 

name 
Shall  blaze,  with  a  new  light,  through  Italy. 

Eogo.    0,  ho  !     "  our  name  !  "     My  sword  crawls 

in  its  scabbard. 

Friend,  you  have  not  one  generous  aim  in  this ;  " 
Your  own  huge  pride  awakes  this  forward  zeal : 
But  you  '11  learn  wisdom  through  humility. 

Mar.    How,  raven,  how  ? 

Eogo.  A  hundred  little  things 

Shall  make  you  gnaw  your  fingers  to  the  quick. 
You  '11  haply  blunder  at  the  first  grand  feast : 
At  which  Lord  So-and-so  will  titter,  titter  ; 
And  Lady  Somebody  will  simper,  simper  ; 
And  sly  Co\mt  Nobody,  a  noted  wit, 
Will  wink  and  wink  ;  while  some  bluff  honest  duke 
Howls  out  his  laughter.     Then  our  father  wriggles, 
And  stares  straight  through  a  six-foot  granite  wall ; 

VOL.  n.  3 


34  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Our  mother  blushes,  and  talks  violently 

About  the  price  of  spaniels  to  her  neighbors  ; 

Our  bride  hangs  down  her  head  —  perchance  a  tear, 

Like  a  full  dew-drop,  gathers  on  her  cheek, 

And  drowns  out  its  carnations. 

Mar.  I  will  hire 

The  world's  opinion  till  my  manners  mend. 
Life  is  but  one  long  lesson. 

Rogo.  Ah  !  I  fear 

Your  lesson  will  be  paid  for  in  rude  coin. 
Now  hear  me,  Marsio  ;  if  you  are  horn-mad, 
Wed  some  fresh  country  girl,  some  honest  thing, 
Too  big  a  fool  to  be  a  lady  sinner  — 
Too  proud  of  you  to  think  you  aught  but  perfect  — 
Too  ignorant  to  know  your  faults  of  breeding  — 
One  every  way  inferior  to  yourself — 
And  I  will  chime  in  with  your  marriage-bell. 

Mar.    You  waste  your  wisdom,  Pietro  ;  I  '11  wed 
No  other  than  Costanza.  [PULTI  sings  within.'} 

Rogo.  Hark  !  here  comes 

Our  merry  gossip,  Pulti.  Let  us  ask 
A  fool's  advice.  Babies  and  naturals 
Speak,  sometimes,  by  a  kind  of  inspiration. 

Mar.    You  will  not  condescend  ?  — 

Rogo.  'Sblood !  he 's  a  man  ! 

I  have  no  princely  notions,  like  your  own, 
To  pull  me  from  my  fellows. 

{Enter  PULTT,  singing.) 

PuUi.  The  devil  wriggled, 

The  devil  squealed, 

The  devil  gave  a  shout ; 


THE    BETROTHAL.  35 

f 

But  Saint  Dunstan  he 
Held  on  stoutly, 

And  put  the  fiend  to  rout. 

Mar.  Stop  your  din  ! 

That  villain  has  one  long,  unending  song 
About  a  certain  devil,  who  has  seen 
More  sad  adventures  than  the  Golden  Legend 
Recounts  of  all  its  saints. 

Pul.  Hem,  hem,  hem,  hem  1 

Mar.    What  do  you  hem  at  ? 

Pul.  I  have  seen  in  churches, 

When  the  dull  preacher  would  not  hem  himself, 
The  congregation  would  hem  for  him. 

Bogo.  True. 

What  thinks  your  wisdom  of  your  master's  marriage  ? 

Pul.    Lord  !    sir,   I  seldom  think ;    it   spoils   my 

talking. 

I  scorn  your  thoughts  ;  the  stealthy,  spectral  things 
Smell  of  the  church-yard,  and  of  heaven  and  hell  — 
And  bygone  happiness,  and  present  pain  — 
And  barren  futures  filled  with  new-made  graves  — 
And  baby-hopes  nipped  in  our  nursing  arms  — 
Of  all  that 's  dreary,  and  of  naught  that 's  bright. 
They  are  huge  stoppers  for  a  flowing  mouth, 
That  still  by  strangling. 

Bogo.  Have  you  naught  to  say  ? 

Pul.    I  '11  race  my  tongue  with  any  man's.     I  say, 
My  master  will  be  wiser  than  he  's  rich. 

Bogo.    A  goodly  store  of  wisdom,  that !     How, 
boy? 

Pul.   When  he  has  gathered  in  his  bursting  brains 


36  THE    BETROTHAL. 

* 

All  the  fantastic  humors  of  a  woman, 
He  '11  have  more  thoughts  than  ducats. 

Rogo.  Marsio,  mark : 

The  knave  's  a  prophet.     What  is  wedlock  like  ? 

Pul.    Much  like  sin's  journey  after  happiness. 
We  start  upon  it  with  a  merry  heart, 
Proceed  upon  it  with  a  sober  one, 
And  end  — 

Rogo.       Ah !  yes  ;  where  end  we  ? 

Pul.  Not  at  all : 

We  stumble  in  our  graves. 

Rogo.  A  gloomy  thought. 

Pul.    'T  is  not  a  thought.     I  lit  upon  the  fact 
By  seeing,  and  not  thinking.     For  your  thinkers 
Go  stumbling  headlong  in  with  all  the  rest, 
Thinking  of  all  save  death. 

Rogo.  Sage  doctor  Pulti, 

You  shall  teach  me  your  doctrines. 

Pul.  I  will,  sir, 

In  one  short  rule.  —  Keep  your  eyes  ever  open. 

Mar.  Have  you  not  done  ?  For  Pulti  will  reply 
Till  doomsday  break.  'T  is  not  his  wonted  mood  ; 
He  's  oftener  gay  than  sad. 

Pul.  'T  is  a  sad  thought  — 

Note,  signore  Rogo,  thinking  makes  one  sad  — 
To  weigh  two  losses  with  a  single  gain. 

Rogo.    Your  wit  outshoots  me. 

Pul.  With  a  feeble  shaft. 

I,  by  this  marrying,  must  lose  a  master ; 
My  poor,  poor  master  —  who  may  comfort  him  ?  — 
Must  lose  a  servant !  —  Such  a  servant,  sir !  — 
So  sober  —  when  you  keep  his  wine  away  ; 
So  sweetly  tempered  —  when  you  do  not  cross  him  ; 


THE    BETROTHAL.  3 

So   grave   and   seemly  —  when   there  's   naught  to 

laugh  at ; 

So  frugal  —  when  you  give  him  naught  to  spend  ; 
So  every  way  perfection  —  where  you  grow  not 
The  carnal  apple  to  assail  his  Adam. 
I  have  lived  on  these  conditions,  many  a  day, 
The  best  of  slaves. 

Eogo.  But  where  's  your  single  gain  ? 

Pul.    Nay,  't  is  but  half  a  one  :  master  and  man 
Share  it  between  them.  —  'T  is  an  untried  mistress  — 
A  vast,  dim,  shadowy,  uncertain  fear, 
That  may  be  saint  or  devil. 

Mar.  Pulti  I  —  dog ! 

Saddle  my  horses  ! 

Pul.  For  the  beggar's  ride. 

Mar.    Dare  you  presume  so  far  upon  my  kindness, 
You  coarse-grained  knave  ? 

Pul.  Not  I ;  I  never  trespass 

On  such  unstable  ground. 

Eogo.  Where  do  you  ride  ? 

Mar.   Where  should  a  lover  ride  ? 

Jtogo.  0,  pause  at  once. 

All  things  cry  out  against  this  unmeet  match  : 
Blood,    rank,    and    breeding,    fortune,   friends,    and 

tastes, 

In  rigid  opposition  stand  between. 
You  cannot  mould  these  opposites  to  one  ; 
Force  them  together,  and  earth's  primal  chaos 
Were  harmony  to  their  eternal  jar. 

Mar.    You  could  not  move  me,  had  you  Tully's 

tongue  ; 
Prop  heaven  with  virgin  gold,  you  could  not  buy  me  ; 


38  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Summon  the  damned,  with  all  their  terrors  on, 
You  could  not  daunt  me  !  —  To  the  horses,  Pulti ! 
Pul.    I  am  going,  sir.  [Sings.] 

These  horns  were  worn, 
Ere  you  were  born, 

The  grinning  devil  said  ; 
Then  take  no  care, 
But  proudly  wear  — 

Mar.  You  know  this  cudgel,  sirrah  ? 

Pul.   Thank  you  ;  we  've  often  met  before.     His 

name 

Is  oak  ;  his  mother  was  an  acorn.     See, 
I  know  the  family  from  end  to  end. 
You  need  not  introduce  us,  signore.  [Exit."] 

Mar.  Rogo, 

The  aims  of  my  existence  have  been  few, 
Yet,  in  the  service  of  the  thing  I  sought, 
I  have  offered  up  my  health,  my  life,  my  soul. 
He  must  be  rash,  or  confident,  who  stands 
Between  a  zealot  and  his  single  mark.  — 
My  horses,  Pulti !  —  I  have  set  my  heart 
Upon  this  marriage  ;  let  heaven  frown  or  smile, 
Till  I  am  blasted  into  nothingness, 
I  will  pursue  it  as  if  heaven  were  not !  — 
My  horses,  knave  I 

Pulti.  (Without.)  Here,  sir.     Ho!  Lucifer. 

Rogo.  I  '11  try  to  cross  you  for  your  own  advantage, 
If  honest  means  may  prosper. 

Mar.  Well,  push  on  ! 

Choose  your  own  weapons,  fight  as  you  think  fit ; 
But,  Pietro  Rogo,  when  we  are  at  the  tug  — 
When  the  blood  boils,  and  timid  conscience  flies  — 


THE    BETROTHAL. 

When  what  opposes,  with  a  friendly  front, 

Is  not  distinguished  from  an  enemy  — 

Then  call  for  mercy  to  the  prayer-stunned  saints,. 

And  hope  an  age  of  miracles  may  come, 

But  not  to  Marsio  !  —  My  horses  wait. 


SCENE  m. 

A  Room  in  the  Castle  of  the  MARQUIS  DI  TIBURZZI.     COSTANZA 
and  FILIPPLA. 

Filippia.    Saw  him  before  ? 

Costanza.  Yes  ;  —  only  once  before. 

FiL   But  where,  and  how  ? 

Cos.  Can  you  not  call  to  mind 

The  day  our  duke  was  welcomed  by  the  people  ? 

Fil.    As  well  as  yesterday. 

Cos.  Indeed,  indeed  ! 

It  seems  a  weary  age  since  then,  to  me. 
Among  the  nobles,  who  rode  nigh  the  duke, 
Was  one  who,  in  all  noble  qualities 
Of  port  and  majesty,  rode  there  supreme  : 
Clad  in  black  velvet,  for  his  father's  death  ; 
Yet  wearing  a  long  plume  of  ostrich  white, 
As  a  fit  emblem  of  the  general  joy. 

Fil.   Lord  !  you  know  all  about  him  ! 

Cos.  Yes  —  why  —  yes.  — 

Surely  the  people  talked  of  him  alone. 

Fil  I  was  beside  you,  yet  I  heard  them  not. 
Well,  well,  go  on. 

Cos.  It  chanced  a  beggar's  child, 

A  pretty  boy  —  one  of  those  nimble  imps 


40 


THE    BETROTHAL. 


That  live  by  miracles  't  wixt  horses'  feet, 

And  under  carriage-wheels  —  became  entangled 

In  the  unusual  press  ;  shrieked  out  for  help  ; 

Then,  suddenly,  was  still  for  very  fear. 

The  whole   crowd   held   its   breath,  and   one  great 

heart 

Beat  through  it  all.     Now  there  arose  a  cry  : 
Yet  while  the  silly  people  did  but  scream, 
Down  from  his  charger  leaped  the  cavalier, 
Dashed  in  the  throng,  and,  ere  I  cried  God  bless 

him, 

The  boy  was  laughing  in  his  mother's  arms  ! 
Fil.    Now,  I  recall  some  little  scene  like  that. 
Cos.    'T  was  a  great  scene  !     The  duke  stretched 

out  his  hand  ; 

And,  glorious  in  his  dimmed  and  miry  suit, 
The  hero  mounted  lightly  on  his  horse. 
Some  nobles  laughed,  some  sneered,  some  looked 

askance  ; 

But  all  the  people  raised  a  mighty  shout ; 
And  the  great  sun,  bursting^  heavy  cloud, 
Shone  round  Juranio  like  a  halo  ! 

Fil.  Brave  ! 

Yet,  cousin,  I  saw  not  one  half  that  you  did. 
I  heard  a  child  scream  ;  heard  some  voices  call ; 
Saw  a  man  quickly  leap  down  from  his  horse  ; 
Heard  a  faint  murmur  ;  then  the  show  went  on.  — 
About  the  sun  and  halo  I  know  nothing. 

Cos.    'T  was  many  a  day  ere  I  forgot  the  Count ; 
And  when  we  met  this  morn,  a  sudden  thrill 
Of  the  old  feeling  stirred  my  memory, 
And  brought  me  back  that  moving  scene  again,  — 
Which  much  confused  me. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  41 

• 

Fil.  Ah  !  "  Which  much  confused  you ! " 

Take  my  word,  cousin,  our  heroic  Count, 
When  he  caught  up  the  beggar's  little  boy, 
Caught  up  a  certain  lady's  heart,  I  wot  of.  — 
But  I  approve  it. 

Cos.  What  do  you  approve  ? 

Fil.    The  catching  up  of  fair  Costanza's  heart. 

Cos.    I  beg  you,  cousin,  not  to  break  your  jests 
Upon  so  grave  a  subject.     Had  my  mother 
O'erheard  your  heedless  nonsense,  this  would  be 
A  stormy  day  for  me. 

Fil.  I  have  a  secret  — 

Nay,  a  surmise,  which  I  have  made  a  secret  — 
That  casts  a  fearful  shadow.  — 

Cos.  I  am  listening. 

Fil.    I  fear  to  speak  ;  knowing  the  steadfast  love 
You  cherish  towards  your  parents. 

Cos.  Dear  Filippia, 

My  marriage  has  perplexed  you  sadly.     Speak  ; 
For  it  must  be  your  subject.     I  absolve  you 
From  your  hard  promises.   Come,  come,  give  tongue ; 
Draw  off  your  rancor  to  the  very  dregs : 
111  words,  well-purposed,  have  no  mischief  in  them. 

Fil.    Has  not  your  mother  an  o'er-anxious  care 
About  this  marriage  ? 

Cos.  Is  it  not  a  duty 

She  owes  my  father  ? 

Fil.  But  your  father  looks 

So  sad  and  moody  !     Then  he  never  speaks. 
There  's  something  in  his  silence. 

Cos.  It  reveals 

The  wishes  that  lie  nearest  to  his  heart. 
He  fears  his  choice  has  swayed  my  inclination ; 


42  THE    BETROTHAL. 

And  that  I  many  signore  Marsio 
More  from  a  sense  of  duty  than  from  love  : 
So  he  withholds  his  counsel,  leaving  me 
My  own  conclusion. 

Fil.  Doubtless  that  might  be. 

I  could   unfold   such    things.  —  The    saints   forgive 

me  ! 

Love,  gratitude  —  owed,  if  not  well  repaid  — 
0 !  why  do  you  cry  out  so  loud  against  me  ? 
She  took  me  when  a  child,  a  helpless  orphan  — 
When  no  one  else  would  keep  me  —  when  my  kin 
Hawked  me  about,  with  a  sour  charity, 
From  one  hand  to  another  ;  —  reared  me  so 
That  the  most  jealous  eye  could  not  detect 
Wherein  my  training  differed  from  her  own, 
Her  own  dear  child,  Costanza's  ;  for  whose  sake  — 
But  what  affection  pardons  treachery  ? 

Cos.   Filippia,  darling,  pray  be  plain  ! 

Fil.  No,  no ; 

I  cannot,  dare  not.     I  have  said  too  much. 
Your  mother's  smile  will  be  a  long  reproach 
To  me,  who  should  deserve,  above  all  others, 
The  never-ending  smile  she  suns  me  in. 
I  have  had  thoughts,  base,  base,  degrading  thoughts, 
But  I  will  kill  them,  if  I  perish  with  them  — 
Which,  but  to  speak,  would  make  yon  old  Tiburzzi 
Leap  up  and  shudder  in  their  frames  ;  would  shake 
This  ancient  roof-tree  on  my  wicked  head, 
And  hide  my  shame  in  ruins  !     It  were  just. 
Believe  me  not,  Costanza  ;  scorn  my  hints  ; 
Cling  to  your  mother  —  she  is  worth  your  love. 
I,  I  —  0,  vile  !  —  nay,  do  not  pity  me  — 
A.ID  thp  most  faithless  of  a  high-souled  race ! 


THE    BETROTHAL.  43 

Cos.   What  mean  you  ?  Speak  !  —  You  do  not  love 

me.    Speak  !  — 
What  is  this  mystery  ?     Speak  ! 

Fil.  No  ;  never  more. 

We  must  all  wreck  together  ;  I  am  dumb. 


44  THE    BETROTHAL. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE    I.     The  Park  of  the  MARQUIS   m   TIBUKZZI.      Enter 

JURANIO. 

Juranio.   HAIL!  once  again,  thou  blooming  vine- 
clad  bower  ! 

How  long  is  it  since  the  fair  mistress'  hand 
Curled  thy  soft  tendrils  to  this  artful  flow, 
Moulding  the  straggling  wildness  of  thy  humors 
Into  such  harmony  ?     By  your  leave,  rose. 

[ Plucks  a  rose.] 

These  crumpled  features  tell  some  dainty  hand 
Has  pressed  into  the  cramped  and  knotted  bud, 
To  force  its  backward  nature  into  flower. 
Say,  have  you  told  her,  treacherous  confidant  — 
For  you  are  full  of  whispering  winds,  that  tell 
To  me,  a  late  companion,  many  a  tale 
Of  the  gray  East,  where  all  your  kindred  speak 
The  lover's  low,  close  language  —  have  you  told 
How  oft  your  leafy  screen  has  covered  me, 
While  she,  the  mistress  of  us  both,  swept  by, 
Sad,  but  majestic  ?     Wherefore  is  she  sad  ? 
My  tongue  runs  tripping,  but  my  heart  is  lead. 
0,  Count  Juranio,  what  a  fool  art  thou, 
To  waste  thy  manhood  on  a  maid  who  cares 
No  atom  for  thy  countship  !    To  lie  hidden, 
Hour  after  hour,  upon  the  dank,  rough  ground, 
Merely  to  catch  the  glimmer  of  a  girl  — 
A  girl  who  casts  the  pearl  of  her  affection 


THE    BETROTHAL.  45 

Before  that  swinish  usurer,  Marsio  ! 

By  heaven,  'tis  villanous  !    And  were  it  not  — 

So  much  her  seeming  gives  report  the  lie  — 

That  I  believe  this  marriage  forced  upon  her, 

By  the  parental  usage  of  our  land, 

I  'd  fly  her  as  infectious.     What,  what !  she 

To  prop  a  selfish  dotard's  crumbling  house 

With  the  untimely  ruins  of  her  youth  ! 

To  spin  a  few  thin  moments  for  his  age 

Out  of  her  heart's  blood  !     Suffer  worse  than  death, 

That  one  old  man  may  crawl  down  to  his  grave 

With  a  stuffed  pocket !     By  the  blessed  saints, 

Blood  has  no  claim  upon  her  !     She  is  mad, 

To  nurse  the  childish  folly  of  old  age 

To  such  portentous  bigness  !     Ha  !  once  more 

Hide  love  and  me,  my  sweet  confederate  ! 

[Goes  behind  the  bower."] 
(Enter  COSTANZA.) 

Costanza.   Fit  season  for  my  visit.     It  was  morn 
When  first  I  met  him  ;  every  leaf  and  flower 
Looked  up  and  opened  to  increasing  day  ; 
Nature  spread  wide  her  arms,  in  liberal  joy, 
Yielding  her  flushing  bosom  to  the  sun. 
Even  as  a  tardy  flower,  my  heart  unclosed 
To  revel  in  his  presence  ;  even  as 
Eejoiciug  nature,  my  whole  quickening  frame 
Glowed  into  new  existence.     While  the  sun 
Plunges  in  haste  behind  yon  western  clouds, 
To  course  dun  night  around  his  broad  domain, 
The  leaves  and  flowers  may  weep  themselves  to  rest ; 
Nature  may  cross  her  placid  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dream  of  morn  beneath  the  merry  stars  ; 
But,  ah !  to  me  there  is  no  tearful  rest, 


44  THE    BETROTHAL. 


ACT    III. 
SCENE    I.     The  Park  of  the  MARQUIS   m   TIBURZZI.      Enter 

JURANIO. 

Juranio.    HAIL  !  once  again,  thou  blooming  vine- 
clad  bower ! 

How  long  is  it  since  the  fair  mistress'  hand 
Curled  thy  soft  tendrils  to  this  artful  flow, 
Moulding  the  straggling  wildness  of  thy  humors 
Into  such  harmony  ?     By  your  leave,  rose. 

[Plucks  a  rose.] 

These  crumpled  features  tell  some  dainty  hand 
Has  pressed  into  the  cramped  and  knotted  bud, 
To  force  its  backward  nature  into  flower. 
Say,  have  you  told  her,  treacherous  confidant  — 
For  you  are  full  of  whispering  winds,  that  tell 
To  me,  a  late  companion,  many  a  tale 
Of  the  gray  East,  where  all  your  kindred  speak 
The  lover's  low,  close  language  —  have  you  told 
How  oft  your  leafy  screen  has  covered  me, 
While  she,  the  mistress  of  us  both,  swept  by, 
Sad,  but  majestic  ?     Wherefore  is  she  sad  ? 
My  tongue  runs  tripping,  but  my  heart  is  lead. 
0,  Count  Juranio,  what  a  fool  art  thou, 
To  waste  thy  manhood  on  a  maid  who  cares 
No  atom  for  thy  countship  !    To  lie  hidden, 
Hour  after  hour,  upon  the  dank,  rough  ground, 
Merely  to  catch  the  glimmer  of  a  girl  — 
A  girl  who  casts  the  pearl  of  her  affection 


THE   BETROTHAL.  45 

Before  that  swinish  usurer,  Marsio  ! 

By  heaven,  'tis  villanous  !    And  were  it  not  — 

So  much  her  seeming  gives  report  the  lie  — 

That  I  believe  this  marriage  forced  upon  her, 

By  the  parental  usage  of  our  land, 

I  'd  fly  her  as  infectious.     What,  what !  she 

To  prop  a  selfish  dotard's  crumbling  house 

With  the  untimely  ruins  of  her  youth  ! 

To  spin  a  few  thin  moments  for  his  age 

Out  of  her  heart's  blood  !     Suffer  worse  than  death, 

That  one  old  man  may  crawl  down  to  his  grave 

With  a  stuffed  pocket !     By  the  blessed  saints, 

Blood  has  no  claim  upon  her  !     She  is  mad, 

To  nurse  the  childish  folly  of  old  age 

To  such  portentous  bigness  !     Ha  !  once  more 

Hide  love  and  me,  my  sweet  confederate  ! 

[  Goes  behind  the  bower.] 
(Enter  COSTANZA.) 

Costanza.   Fit  season  for  my  visit.     It  was  morn 
When  first  I  met  him  ;  every  leaf  and  flower 
Looked  up  and  opened  to  increasing  day  ; 
Nature  spread  wide  her  arms,  in  liberal  joy, 
Yielding  her  flushing  bosom  to  the  sun. 
Even  as  a  tardy  flower,  my  heart  unclosed 
To  revel  in  his  presence  ;  even  as 
Kejoicing  nature,  my  whole  quickening  frame 
Glowed  into  new  existence.     While  the  sun 
Plunges  in  haste  behind  yon  western  clouds, 
To  course  dun  night  around  his  broad  domain, 
The  leaves  and  flowers  may  weep  themselves  to  rest ; 
Nature  may  cross  her  placid  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dream  of  morn  beneath  the  merry  stars  ; 
But,  ah !  to  me  there  is  no  tearful  rest, 


48  THE    BETROTHAL. 

While  peeping  buds  unfolded  into  flowers  — 

While  infant  leaves  uncurled  their  tiny  scrolls, 

And,  full-grown,  basked  them  in  the  mellow  sun  — 

While  all  creation  was  an  active  hymn 

Of  ceaseless  labor  to  approving  God  — 

I  have  stood  idly,  though  the  dear  time  sped, 

Waiting  to  catch  the  faintest  glimpse  of  you. 

Then,  happy  with  that  treasure  of  my  sense, 

Have  hied  me  home,  to  fill  my  waking  thoughts 

With  growing  fancies  ;  or,  through  fleeting  night, 

Made  my  dreams  golden  with  the  memory 

Of  what  had  blessed  my  day.     I  cover  nothing  : 

I  have  no  skill  nor  wish  to  circumvent  you. 

You  know  the  mystery  of  my  presence  here  ; 

You  know  the  secret  of  my  love,  —  ah  !  yes, 

You  knew  it  ere  I  spoke  it.     You  can  lift, 

By  confirmation  of  your  former  words, 

A  sinking  heart  to  rapture.     Speak,  0,  speak  ! 

My  fate  hangs  on  your  mercy  ! 

Cos.  Have  you  heard 

No  rumor  of  my  marriage  ? 

Ju.  Yes  ;  a  rumor,  — 

A  baseless  rumor. 

Gos.  Ere  another  week, 

That  rumor  and  my  fate  will  be  but  one. 

Ju.   Is  there  no  hope  ? 

Gos.  I  chose  my  portion,  sir. 

And  must  abide  the  issue. 

Ju.  Dear  Costanza, 

Did  you  but  know  the  energy,  the  power, 
Which  I  might  use  to  sway  your  destiny  ; 
To  foil  a  wretch  —  , 

Cos.  Hold !    Do  you  counsel  me 


THE   BETROTHAL.  49 

To  scheme  against  my  honor  ?     Farewell,  sir ! 
I  know  not  by  what  weakness  I  have  staid 
To  hear  —     Kind  Heaven,  some  strength  ! 

Inside.     Exit  hastily.] 

Ju.  Stay,  lady,  stay  !  — 

What,   shall  I  follow  ?  — Gods  !     I  '11   drown  this 

feeling  ! 

Follow,  forsooth,  to  glut  her  cruelty, 
To  make  myself  the  plaything  of  a  girl,  — 
I,  Count  Juranio,  follow  like  a  spaniel, 
And  on  a  cold  scent  too  !     Is  this  thing  love  ? 
I  ween  't  is  more  like  hate  —  sound,  manly  hate. 
Cold,  cruel,  heartless  jilt !     Yes,  she  was  cold  — 
Cold,  very  cold.     Love  is  not  self-possessed. 
But  was  she  cruel  ?     I  cannot  call  her  cruel. 
I  hope  not  heartless.     Yet  she  loves  me  not. 
Nay,  she  was  very  sparing  of  my  feelings. 
I  broke  upon  her  rudely  —  startled  her  ; 
At  such  a  time  too.     Yet  she  loves  me  not. 
Ah  !  yes  ;  at  such  a  time  !  while  every  word 
Lightened  the  freight  of  her  o'erburdened  heart. 
'T  was  rash  in  me  —  thoughtless :  I  should  respect 
Maiden  reserve.     She  likes  not  sudden  passion. 
In  faith,  nor  do  I.     Reason  should  confirm 
Our  hearts'  emotions,  ere  we  give  them  way. 
Perhaps  she  loves  me  yet !     I  '11  swear  she  does ; 
Or  sovereign  Love  is  but  a  gilded  toy ! 

(Enter  SALVATOBE.) 

Salvatore.   Ho  !  there,  Juranio  ! 

Ju.  Signore  Marsio  — 

Sal.  My  name  is  Salvatore,  please  you. 

Ju.  So ! 

VOL.  n.  4 


50  THE    BETROTHAL. 

But  let  him  stand  aside  ;  I  cannot  answer 
Where  love  may  drive  me. 

Sal.  Can  you  answer  me  ? 

Deaf  man  !  —  Juranio  !     Are  you  dumb  too  ?     Here, 
Let  us  talk  with  our  fingers. 

Ju.  Salvatore, 

I  've  met  her,  spoken  with  her  I 

Sal.  So  have  I. 

Ju.   What  said  she  ? 

Sal.  Little.     In  my  breathing-times, 

She  edged  a  word  in. 

Ju.  What  had  you  to  say  ? 

Sal.    0  !  nothing  plainly ;  I  've  not  come  to  that. 
But,  here  and  there,  I  tumbled  in  a  hint, 
Like  love  astray,  which  she  may  ponder  on. 

Ju.   You  love  her  ? 

Sal.  Ay,  sir ;  she  is  not  preserved ; 

I  was  not  poaching ;  she  is  open  game. 

Ju.   How  did  she  take  it  ? 

Sal.  Kindly,  very  kindly. 

Ju.   Villain  !  —  traitor  !     [Seizes  Mm.] 

Sal.  Lord  love  the  man  !    Let  go  ! 

Is  Bhe  the  only  she  within  the  realm  ? 
I  have  another  she,  to  whom  your  she 
Is  only  cousin. 

Ju.  Miserable  jester ! 

Sal.    No ;  I  am  serious.     0,  thou  dear  Filippia, 
Couldst  thou  but  hear  this  shabby  creature  sneer 
At  us,  and  at  love's  majesty !     Base,  vile, 
Soulless  Juranio ! 

Ju.  On  this  very  spot, 

Hidden  behind  yon  bower,  I  heard  her  own 
Such  feelings  for  me  —  ah !  such  rapturous  feelings 


THE   BETROTHAL.  51 

Of  maiden  innocence  !     My  beggar  heart 

Was  rich  at  once,  as  if  the  heavens  rained  love ! 

Sal.   Heard  whom  ? 

Ju.  Costanza  —  why,  Costanza,  surely. 

Sal.   I  pray  you  do  not  gall  me,  kinsman,  thus. 
I  am  rashly  jealous,  deadly  quarrelsome  ; 
I  '11  fight  you  for  a  feather. 

Ju.  While  the  words 

Still  tingled  in  my  ears,  upon  this  spot, 
This  very  spot,  —  see  where  her  little  feet 
Have  nestled  in  the  grass,  —  I  heard  her  say 
She  could  not  love  me,  never  would  be  mine, 
And,  worse  than  all,  would  marry  Marsio  ! 

Sal.   Worms  gnaw  the  fellow !     All  Filippia  said 
Was  "  Marsio,  and  Marsio,"  and  "  Cousin, 
Poor,  poor  Costanza  !  "     And  now  you  begin  ! 
Think  you  the  heathen  means  to  wed  them  both  ? 
What  is  this  Marsio  ? 

Ju.  A  wealthy  merchant, 

Or  usurer,  or  some  such  sorry  thing, 
Picked  by  the  Marquis  for  his  daughter's  bed  : 
A  slow,  sure  matrimonial  poison,  used 
To  fatten  purses,  —  death  to  flesh  and  blood. 

Sal.    I  understand.     We  must  be  rid  of  him. 

Ju.   But  how  ? 

Sal.  Quite  simply — [Musing.] 

Ju.  How  ? 

Sal.  Why  break  my  thoughts  ? 

I  quarrelled,  fought  him,  was  just  burying  him, 
By  an  unfailing  plan  ;  but  you  destroyed  it. 


52  THE    BETROTHAL. 

(Enter  PULTI,  singing.) 

The  devil  looked  down, 
With  a  curse  and  a  frown, 

And  to  the  young  witch  he  said, 
'Ods  blood  !  I  'd  far  rather 
Quell  hell  in  hot  weather, 

Than  govern  one  headstrong  maid  ! 

Ju.   Whence  comes  that  devilish  song  ? 

Sal.  From  yonder  knave. 

Come  hither,  nightingale. 

Pulti.  You  called  me,  sign  ore  ? 

Sal.   Ay,  warbler,  unperch.     What  is  the  news  in 
hell? 

Pul.    The  devil  has  a  surfeit  of  light  fools, 
And  sends  for  solid  food  ;  I  '11  pass  you  by. 

Sal.   Now,  by  his   tongue,  the    bird 's   a  wood 
pecker. 

Pul.    And  rapping  on  your  poll. 

Sal.  His  tongue  'B  a  foil : 

He  foins  and  parries  like  a  mountebank. 
Whom  do  you  serve  ? 

Pul.  Myself  most  faithfully, 

To  answer  strictly  ;  but  I  give,  sometimes, 
To  answer  more  at  large,  slack  services 
To  Sign  ore  Marsio. 

Sal.  That  name  again  ! 

How  many  Marsio  s  are  there  ? 

Pul.  One  at  present. 

He  gets  to  breeding  shortly ;  there  '11  be  more. 

Ju.    Are  you  purveying  for  a  cudgelling  ? 

Pul.  Heaven  knows.    What  means  the  gentleman  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  53 

Sal.  Scarce  nothing : 

His  thoughts  are  hardly  fantasies  just  now. 
How  do  you  like  your  service  ? 

Pul.  Why,  so  far 

As  one  may  thrive  on  musty  wine,  thin  diet, 
Most  scanty  wages  — • 

Sal.  What  a  churlish  wretch, 

To  treat  so  brave  a  fellow  to  such  fare  ! 

Pul.    Signore,  you  wrong  him.     I  'm  as  well  sup 
plied 
With  work  as  bees   are  ;    I  've  more  blows   than 

Winter  ; 

Oaths  thick  as  stars  ;  frowns  bountiful  as  sunlight : 
I  am  called  up  early,  like  an  April  violet ; 
Sent  to  bed  tardily,  like  a  waning  moon  ; 
I  am  railed  and  sneered  at  like  Heaven's  providence  ; 
Outraged  like  modest  nature  — 

Sal.  So  !  boy,  so  ! 

Is  Marsio  honest  ? 

Pul.  Passably,  so  far  ; 

But  then,  you  know,  the  devil  has  a  say, 
Sooner  or  later,  in  the  best  of  lives. 

Sal.    Would  you  change  masters  ? 

Pul.  Ay,  with  Satan's  dog. 

But  that  is  hopeless  ;  wit 's  uncurrent  coin  ; 
Men  drop  me  sooner  than  they  take  me  up. 

Sal.   Serve  me. 

Pul.  I  'm  yours.     Now,  farewell,  Marsio  ! 

I  '11  leave  my  rags  as  keepsakes. 

Sal.  Not  so  fast. 

My  service  is  peculiar  ;  but  its  wages 
Out-go  your  dreams.     A  fortnight  I  desire 
You  watch  o'er  Marsio,  note  his  slightest  act, 


54  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Become  more  zealous,  more  familiar  with  him  ; 

Let  naught  escape  you.     When  the  time  is  fair, 

You  '11  run  to  me,  and  make  a  full  report. 

I  have  suspicions  of  this  Marsio's  truth, 

From  certain  hints  a  shrewd-brained  lady  dropped  ; 

And  should  I  catch  him  —  (Aside.)    Can  we  not  agree  ? 

Pul.   How  !    I  play  spy ! 

Sal.  Are  you  a  Christian  man  ? 

Pul.   Yes;  of  the  latest  make. 

Sal.  Then  hearken,  man ! 

If  Marsio  's  honest,  you  can  say  no  ill ; 
If  he  is  false,  't  is  nothing  but  plain  duty 
To  fright  his  brother  sinners  with  his  sins. 
Make  him  hell's  scare-crow  ;  for  example,  brother, 
Is  your  best  governor  of  coward  man. 
There  is  a  pithy  sermon,  preached  for  you, 
Upon  the  mote  and  beam  text.     After  this 
Short  fortnight's  service,  life  is  all  your  own. 

Pul.   I  '11  do  it.     But  forgive  me,  if  I  think 
Your  promise  better  than  your  argument. 

Sal.    The  knave  is  apt.         [Aside.'} 

Ju.  Kinsman,  't  is  treacherous 

To  set  a  spy  upon  your  enemy  : 
You  lower  to  his  level. 

Sal.  Well,  sir  saint, 

E'en  leave  the  schemer  to  his  wicked  schemes. 
Wash  your  hands,  Pilate  !  I  can  bear  the  sin. 
Remember  —  What 's  your  name  ? 

Pul.  Pulti,  good  master. 

Sal.    Remember,  Pulti. 

Pul.  Ay,  sir  ;  have  no  doubts. 

This  wretch,  this  crooked  beast,  this  Marsio, 
Must  be  —  What,  what  ?    I  'm  working  in  the  dark. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  55 

Sal.   That  saves  the  sin. 

Pul.  I  am  not  tender-minded. 

I  have  the  knack  of  talking  sins  to  naught, 
With  your  best  casuists.     Use  your  pleasure,  master. 

(Sings.)     Quoth  the  fiend,  I  was  born 
On  a  Friday  morn, 

My  fall  out  of  heaven  was  Friday, 
On  a  Friday  the  reign 
From  my  kingdom  was  ta'en  ;  — 

The  curse  of  the  seven  was  Friday ! 

To-day  is  Friday,  sir. 

Sal  That 's  the  tune,  bird ! 

Time  wears,  Juranio. 

Ju.  Why,  let  it  wear  ! 

Would  you  clog  time  ?     Put  wings  upon  his  feet : 
Each  passing  day  's  a  drop  of  precious  balm 
To  wounded  hearts.     Alas  !  what  empty  talk  ! 
Time  will  but  add  another,  deeper  pain, 
The  curse  of  memory  ;  a  dreary  waste 
Of  blasted  life,  stretching  from  now  to  death  ! 

Sal.   You  and  your  love  make  up  the  universe  ! 

Ju.    Then  leave  me  to  my  world.     I  would  not 

talk ; 

I  wish  no  comfort,  no  companionship, 
No  mocking  hope,  no  fruitless  sympathy. 

Sal.   Ugh  !  what  a  wintry  heart !    I  hope  yet.  — 
Come !  [Exeunt.} 


56  THE    BETROTHAL. 

SCENE    H. 
The  House  of  MABSIO.     Enter  MABSIO  and  PIETBO  Rooo. 

Marsio.    You  saw  her,  said  you  ?     Do  you  know 
Costanza  ? 

Eogo.    Do  I  know  you  ? 

Mar.  I  cannot  credit  it. 

Eogo.   You  would  not  credit  it. 

Mar.  Upon  his  knees  ? 

Eogo.   As  fine  a  looking  fellow  as  you  '11  meet. 
A  Court-gallant,  a  man  of  her  own  tribe, 
A  new  Adonis,  who  strings  women's  hearts 
On  mournful  osiers,  like  an  angler's  fish. 
Trust  me,  a   dangerous   youth,   with  broad,  white 

brows, 

That  buzz  with  sonnets,  and  such  lady-traps, 
Like  two  great  bee-hives.     There  I  saw  him  down, 
Down  on  his  knees.  —  'T  would  pose  you,  Marsio, 
To  spring  your  chalky  joints. 

Mar.  Pshaw  !    Pietro, 

Your  trick  is  barefaced. 

Eogo.  Trick,  trick  !  —  How  ?  pray  how  ? 

Mar.   You  'd  make  me  jealous. 

Eogo.  By  the  blessed  Virgin, 

I  swear  I  spoke  the  truth  ! 

Mar.  If  it  be  so, 

I  '11  crush  Tiburzzi,  daughter,  wife,  and  all, 
Into  the  dust !     Look  you,  friend  Pietro, 
I  hold  these  beggars  in  my  open  hand. 
Here,  here  —  I  have  been  provident  for  slips  — 
This  little  parchment  covers  all  their  worth 


THE    BETROTHAL.  57 

Down  to  a  lira.     Only  let  them  blench, 
And  they  shall  pray  for  Purgatory.     'Sblood  ! 
Trick  me  !  —  use  me  !  —  make  me  security 
For  a  cracked  daughter  ! 

Eogo.  Who  's  to  blame  but  you  ? 

Mar.    Enough  of  that.     I  '11  watch  her,  Pietro  — 
Nay  ;  are  you  serious  ? 

Eogo.  On  my  soul,  I  am  ! 

Mar.    I  '11  tax  her  with  it.     Will  you  not  confront 
her? 

Eogo.   That  were  base  usage. 

Mar.  Furies  !  what  care  I  ? 

She  'd  make  a  stale  of  me  before  we  're  coupled  ! 

Eogo.    Mend  your  own  botching. 

Mar.  Marry,  that  I  will ! 

And  yet  I  '11  wed  her,  spite  of  her  and  you. 

Eogo.    That  frets  me  little. 

Mar.  0  I    I  know  your  drift ! 

You  have  bred  a  crooked  notion  in  your  brain, 
That  still  keeps  twisting.     You  would  shape  the  end 
Of  the  disastrous  prophecy  you  made, 
Merely  to  be  called  prophet.     Look  you,  look  you, 
Martyrs  are  fashioned  of  such  holy  stuff! 

Eogo.   Your  rage  defeats  your  judgment.     I  would 

guard, 
Not  govern  you. 

Mar.  Come,  let  us  to  the  Park. 

Perchance  we  '11  meet  these  billing  doves  again  : 
And  if  we  do,  Tiburzzi's  crazy  house 
Shall  rattle  in  his  ears  as  if  doom's  trump 
Clamored  against  it !     We  will  say  no  more. 
I  '11  see  her,  Pietro.  —  A  word  ends  all. 

[Exeunt.] 


58  THE    BETROTHAL. 

SCENE  III. 
The  Park  of  the  MARQUIS.     Enter  FILIPPIA  and  SALVATORE. 

Salvator.    By  Cupid's  beard,   I  love  you  hugely, 
lady! 

Filippia.    By  that  same  oath,  I  doubt  it  strangely, 
signore ! 

Sal.    Try  me  by  all  love's  ordeals  ;  if  I  fail 
In  any  point  of  doctrine,  faith,  or  duty, 
Protest  me  arrant. 

Fil.  Fairly  challenged,  sir. 

I  have  a  test. 

Sal.  0  !  name  it,  name  a  thousand  ! 

Fil.   You  are  acquainted  with  my  cousin's  fate, 
With  her  betrothal  to  one  Marsio  ? 

Sal.    Gods  !  I  know  nothing  else  ! 

Fil.  Fie  !  restive  lover  ! 

Sal.    Between  Juranio  and  you,  my  knowledge, 
My  precious  knowledge  —  scraped  by  hard  degrees — 
Bids  fair  to  be  ingulfed  in  that  one  fact. 

Fil.    Be  patient.     Would  you  win  ? 

Sal.  On  any  terms. 

I  might  stand  Marsio's  name  some  ten  times  more ; 
Costanza's  some  two-score.  —  But  do  be  brief; 
My  reason  totters  when  you  mention  them. 

Fil.    We  '11   drop   their  titles.     If  you   foil  this 

marriage, 

My  hand  is  yours  ;  ay,  and  the  largest  piece 
Of  a  most  grateful  heart. 

(Enter,  behind,  MARSIO  and  PIETRO  ROGO,  observing  them.) 
Sal.  But  should  I  fail  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  59 

Fil.   Were  mankind  merged  in  one,  and  you  that 

one, 
I  vow  I  would  not  — 

Sal.  Hist !  swear  not ;  't  is  wicked. 

What  if  you  broke  your  oath  ?     'T  were  perjury  ; 
A  deadly  sin.     I  swear  by  saving  rules, 
That  take  the  peril  from  a  broken  vow : 
Let  me  do  all  the  swearing. 

Fil.  I  am  firm. 

I  err  in  asking  this  ;  but,  having  erred, 
I  '11  have  my  wish  to  lull  my  conscience  with. 

Sal.   I  merely  sought  to  guard  against  mischance. 

[JTnee/s.] 
Here,  on  my  knee,  I  swear  — 

(MARSIO  and  Roao  advance.) 

Marsio.  Hem  1 

Sal.  Zounds !  who  's  this  ? 

[Starting  up."} 

Mar.   He  is  used  to  kneeling.     This  pair,  Pietro, 
And  your  old  eyes,  have  cozened  you. 

Eogo.  No,  no ; 

Yon  doting  couple,  and  the  pair  I  saw, 
Are  no  more  like  than  geese  and  swans.     This  Park 
Must  breed  such  creatures. 

Fil.  Marsio  himself! 

Sal.    You  fellow,  there  !  —  Sirrah  !  —  you  thieving 

clown, 
I  '11  have  you  whipped  for  poaching  ! 

Mar.  Sir ! 

Sal.  You  trespass : 

You  are  intruding  upon  private  grounds. 

Mar.   They  should  be  private,  if  you  often  use 
them. 


60  THE   BETROTHAL. 

Sal.   How,  dog  ? 

Mar.  Sir ! 

Sal.  Quite  at  your  command,  sir.  —  Draw ! 

Here  is  a  pretty  piece  of  level  sod ; 
This  lady  is  my  second  ;  there  stands  yours. 
Draw,  draw !     [Draws.] 

Fil.      Do  not  forget  yourself !    [Apart  to  SALVATOBE.] 

Sal.  Not  I. 

This  were  a  speedy  way  to  settle  all. 

[Apart  to  FIUPPIA.] 
I  wait  you,  sir.     [To  MAKSIO.] 

Mar.  I  do  not  wish  to  kill  you. 

Put  up  your  sword.     I  would  advise  you,  friend, 
To  find  as  safe  a  scabbard  for  your  tongue. 

JRogo.    'Sblood !  do  you  bear  that  Court:fly's  im 
pudence  ? 

Hark  you,  sir ;  signore  Marsio  is  my  friend, 
My  next  of  kin  ;  might  I  supply  his  place  ?    [Draws."] 

Sal.    Most  charmingly.     One  of  the  family 
Is  something  toward.     [To  FILIPPIA.] 

Fil.  Have  you  no  respect, 

No  feeling  for  a  woman  ? 

Mar.  Shame  upon  you  ! 

I  '11  cut  the  first  man  down  who  makes  a  pass. 
Put  up,  good  Pietro.     This  cause  is  mine  : 
He  is  no  friend  who  takes  it  off  my  hands. 
Make  no  excuse.      [To  SALVATORE.] 

Sal.  0  !  never  fear  for  me. 

Mar.    I  pardon  you,  unasked.     The  gentleman 
Has  the  infirmity  of  wrath.     Alas  ! 
Heaven  made  him  so,  for  mortals  to  forgive. 

Sal.   We  '11  settle,  one  day. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  61 

Fil.  Come,  come,  signore  Firebrand ; 

I  wish  a  valiant  escort  home. 

Sal.  Dear  lady, 

Forgive  my  rudeness. 

Fil.  No  ;  I  praise  your  zeal. 

This  bold  beginning  is  a  happy  presage. 

[Exit  with  SALVATORE.] 

Mar.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  You  would  gull  Marsio, 
ha  ?  [Laughing.] 

Know  you  that  man  ?     'T  is  signore  Salvatore, 
The  foremost  swordsman  in  all  Italy. 
Your  life  would  last  two  passes,  and  no  more, 
Before  his  blade.     When  I  crave  suicide, 
I  '11  take  my  quarrel  up  again.     Go,  Rogo. 

Rogo..  'Sdeath  !  no  :  here  I  '11  abide  him. 

Mar.  Mad  as  a  March  wind ! 

Is  there  no  other  way  to  tame  wild  bulls 
Than  butting  at  them  with  a  pair  of  horns  ? 
Meet  him  with  his   own  weapons !     Where 's  re 
venge  — 

Where  's  honor,  satisfaction,  and  all  that  — 
When  you  are  wriggling  half-way  up  a  rapier, 
Your  heart  pinned  to  your  back  ?     I  have  a  way 
To  make  his  bilbo  harmless  as  a  rush  ; 
I  have  an  airy  weapon  that  can  stab, 
Without  a  wound ;  yet  make  our  satin  signore 
Grovel  for  life.     I  'm  master  of  that  blade, 
And  he  is  not :  I  '11  use  it,  Pietro. 

Rogo.   Keep  to  your  own  dark  pathway,  leave  me 

mine  — 
Nay,  sir ;  I  will  not  go  I 

Mar.  Pish  !  headstrong  man  ! 

I  am  walking  towards  the  Castle,  I  shall  meet  him, — 


62  THE    BETROTHAL. 

With  the  most  lowly  reverence  of  my  cap,  — 
If  you  persist,  I  '11  lead  him  round  this  place. 
I  say  you  shall  not  fight !  'twould  ruin  me. 
Now,  dear  friend  Pietro.  — 

Eogo.      •  0  !  well,  to  please  you. 

The  sun  must  rise  to-morrow. 

Mar.  Are  you  sure 

These  two  were  not  the  pair  seen  yester  eve  ? 

Eogo.    I  swear  it,  by  Saint  Peter  !    She  alone, 
Lady  Costanza  —  'sblood !     I  know  her  well  — 
Was  the  divinity  ;  the  worshipper 
I  never  saw  before.     Within  an  hour 
You  shall  know  all  about  him. 

Mar.  At  my  house 

Meet  me,  anon.     I  '11  bring  her  secret  to  you. 
Lady  Costanza  has  an  open  heart, 
And  I  will  tax  it. 

Eogo.  Do  not  trip  yourself. 

You  have  a  dangerous  ignorance  of  rank, 
And  the  refinements  of  its  ticklish  honor. 
I  fear  some  blunder. 

Mar.  'Tis  the  quickest  way  ; 

I  cannot  sleep  until  the  fact  stand  clear. 

[Exit  Booo.] 

As  for  our  heady  signore  of  the  blade, 
Let  him  look  well  to  his  economy  ; 
To  whom  he  credits,  what  he  owes,  what  holds  — 
To  what  he  eats,  what  drinks,  what  physic  takes  — 
To  how  he  sleeps,  and  how  he  goes  abroad  ; 
Let  him  beware  dark  nights,  and  crooked  lanes  — 
Smooth  billet-doux,  and  angry  challenges  ; 
For,  by  the  wrath  to  come,  a  sudden  death 
Might  lurk  in  any  of  them !     Let  him  watch : 


THE   BETROTHAL.  63 

He  opened  credit  with  a  punctual  firm  ; 
We  must  break  quits  ere  long  !     Here  lies  my  path. 

{Exit.] 

SCENE   IV. 

A  Room  in  the  Castle  of  the  MAKQUIS.     Enter  the  MARQUIS  and 
MARCHIONESS  m  TIBURZZL 

Marchioness.    'T  is  the  perversity  of  woman,  sir, 
A  subtle  fiend  forever  creeping  in 
Between  a  young  maid  and  her  interest. 
Our  girls  are  spoiled.     The  women  of  this  age 
Are  infants  from  the  crib  down  to  the  grave,  — 
Weak,  mindless  children,  full  of  baby  whims  — 
All  smiles,  all  tears  ;  but  he  is  weather-wise 
Who  can  predict  their  changing  humors  surely. 
Ah  !  for  the  Roman  matrons,  the  strong  moulds 
In  whom  the  hero  race  was  cast  of  yore  I  — 
What,  not  bite  at  the  Romans  ?  —  sad  indeed  ! 

[Aside.] 

Marquis.   Our  daughter's  grief  is  deeper  than  a 

whim ; 

And  now  her  gloom  seems  doubling.     Oft  of  late 
I  have  seen  her  slyly  wiping  tears  away. 
If  I  observe  her  —  for  I  cannot  help 
The  old  love  rising  sometimes  in  my  eyes  — 
At  once  she  makes  such  frantic  starts  at  mirth  — 
The  dreary  ghost  of  bygone  merriment  — 
The  dismal  echo,  when  the  sound  has  died  — 
The  laughing  lip,  but  not  the  laughing  heart  — 
That  I  cannot  but  wonder  at  a  state 
So  nigh  to  frenzy. 

March.  She  has  lost  your  love. 


64  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.    Can  it  be  that  ?  She  shall  have  all  my  love  ; 
Yes  ;  I  will  double  its  best  outward  show. 
I  have  been  cruel.     It  may  be  that,  indeed.  — 
But  she  has  Marsio's  love,  for  which  she  bartered, 
Most  wittingly,  most  calmly,  my  regard. 
I  can  forgive  her  that,  too.     My  old  age 
Is  over-greedy,  to  presume  her  youth 
Should  cramp  its  action  to  my  selfish  bounds. 
What  arrogance  !     I  had  a  father  once, 
And  loved  him  dearly ;  but  a  little  maid 
Stole  me  and  all  my  duty.     Right,  Costanza !  — 
She  ;s  right,  I  say ! 

March.  I  did  not  question  it. 

Marq.    I  grant  you,  madam,  natural  love  is  pure, 
Holy,  and  calm,  and  fixed  unalterably  ; 
Yet  there  is  something  in  that  other  love, 
With  all  its  turbulence  and  fiery  passion  — 
Its  frenzies  verging  into  bitterness  — 
Its  sudden  heats,  and  sudden  shivering  chills  — 
A  mystery,  and  a  far-fading  feeling, 
So  wraps  this  fruitful  union  of  two  hearts, 
That  I  can  rather  think  its  hidden  start 
To  be  from  some  great  viewless  source  above, 
Than  from  the  many,  obvious,  natural  springs 
Which  rise  around  us  in  our  wonted  paths. 
What  think  you,  wife  ? 

March.  Sir,  sir,  I  raise  no  question. 

Two  passions  in  yourself  hold  this  debate. 

Marq.   Two  struggling  passions  cause  Costanza's 

grief: 
Her  love  for  Marsio  jars  her  love  for  me. 

March.   You're  in  a  desperate  way,  sir,  if  you 
hope, 


THE   BETROTHAL.  65 

With  the  small  pack  of  human  faculties, 
To  hunt  down  girlish  freaks. 

Marq.  Freaks,  madam,  freaks  ! 

March.    My   plot  works   cross-grained.     (Aside.) 

Could  you  trust  Costanza  — 

Ah!  how  he   winces  1  —  (Aside.)      You  might   con 
descend  — 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 
Well? 

Servant.    Signore  Marsio.  [Exit.] 

(Enter  MAKSIO.) 

Marq.  Fair  day  to  you  ! 

Marsio.    Thank  you,  my  lord.     Your   daughter  ? 

where  is  she  ? 
Marq.    Out  in  the  Park. 

Mar.  What  business  draws  her  there  ? 

Marq.   Her  love  of  nature. 

Mar.  Nature  !  —  Human  nature  ? 

Marq.    No  ;  heaven's  and  earth's.     Sunshine,  and 

air,  and  flowers, 

Have  stronger  charms,  for  the  full  pulse  of  youth, 
Than  the  gray  walls  which  chill  age  cowers  in, 
Through  dread  of  sun-strokes,  draughts,  and  sick 
ening  scents. 
Mar.    Sunshine,  and  air,  and  flowers  !  Fine  things, 

no  doubt ! 
Is  she  oft  out  for  sunshine,  air,  and  flowers  ? 

Marq.    Yes  ;  every  hour.     I  cannot  keep  her  in. 
She  seems  to  draw  some  comfort  from  the  breath 
Of  these  bland  May-days. 

Mar.  The  old  man  is  frank.     [Aside.] 

Have  you  much  company  ?  —  I  ask  you  this 
Because  I  seek  acquaintance  with  your  friends. 

VOL.    II.  5 


66  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.  Friends!  I  have  none. — How  your  thoughts 

skip  about !  — 

Besides  yourself,  and  my  large  family 
Of  well-known  creditors,  no  one,  save  those 
Whom  it  scarce  shelters,  comes  beneath  this  roof. 

Mar.    No  one  ? 

Marq.  No  one. 

Mar.  'Tis  sad. 

Marq.  Custom  has  made 

What  troubled  me  at  first,  an  easy  loss. 

Mar.    But,  then,  your  Park  has  many  charms, 
Even  for  the  dainty  relish  of  your  daughter, 
And  her  fair  cousin  —  I  must  not  slip  her  : 
But  now  I  met  her  with  a  cavalier. 

Marq.   How  now  !     Filippia  with  a  cavalier  ! 
I  am  her  guardian  ;  but  'tis  news  to  me. — 
Wife,  wife,  Filippia  with  a  cavalier  ! 

March.    Well,  well,  what  harm  ?    This  is  no  nun 
nery : 

She  is  full-aged.     Her  own  sharp-cornered  wit 
Is  her  best  guardian. 

Marq.  I  must  look  to  this. 

Mar.    'T  is  said  —  but  with  what  truth  I  '11   not 

avouch  — 

Your  daughter  has  another  cavalier. 
These  cousins  hunt  in  couples. 

Marq.  Fairly  said ! 

You  would  excuse  Filippia.  Ha!  ha!  sir;  [Laughing.] 
By  the  sly  twinkle  of  your  eye,  I  judge 
You  are  the  other  cavalier. 

Mar.  'Sdeath  !  no  I 

I  have  no  taste  for  sunshine,  air,  and  flowers ; 
'Ods  blood  !  I  hate  them ! 


THE    BETROTHAL.  6*7 

Marq.  You  are  strangely  moved. 

Mar.    Moved   strangely,  sir,  by  a  most   strange 

device. 

'Twere  better,  till  I  'm  fairly  bound,  at  least  — 
Until  my  honor  cannot  'scape  her  pranks  — 
That  she  —  Costanza,  sir,  —  your  daughter,  sir,  — 
Showed  more  regard  to  common  decency ! 

March.    What  is  all  this  ? 

Marq.  Our  sweet  son,  Marsio, 

Gives  us  an  inkling  of  his  filial  love  ! 

Mar.    Ne'er  sneer  at  me,  sir,  — never  sneer  at  me  ! 

Marq.    I  am  talking  to  this  lady. 

March.  Pray  be  calm.     [Apart  to  MAKSIO.] 

If  signore  Marsio  has  been  well  informed, 
He  has  just  cause  to  take  offence. 

Marq.  Gods  !  madam  — 

March.    Here   comes  Costanza :    she   can   set  us 
right. 

Marq.    No ;  she  can  set  you  wrong,  —  can  show 

how  basely 
You  slander  purity ! 

(Enter  COSTANZA.) 

March.  You  have  been  walking  ? 

Costanza.   Yes.  —  Good-day,  signore  Marsio  ! 

March.  Alone  ? 

Cos.    0,  no  I  0,  no  !     There  was  one  little  bird 
Followed  me  strangely  on,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Measuring  his  lagging  flight  by  my  slow  steps, 
As  if  he  sought  to  keep  me  company  ; 
And  when  I  paused  a  moment,  he  would  hop, 
In  open  view,  upon  the  nearest  spray, 
And  pour  into  my  ears  such  moving  notes  — 
So  melancholy,  yet  so  sweet  withal  — 


68  THE   BETROTHAL. 

That  I  scarce  knew  whether  to  stop  and  hear, 
Or  to  pass  on,  and  end  his  melody. 

Mar.    Sunshine,  and  air,  and  flowers !  and  now  a 

bird !  — 
Pish  !  do  they  take  me  for  a  fool  ?         [Aside.] 

March.  Costanza, 

Had  you  no  other  company  ? 

Cos.  None,  mother. 

Mar.  Bah !  how  she  feathers  us !     I  '11  pluck  your 
bird.  [Aside.] 

Lady  Costanza. 

Cos.  Signore  Marsio. 

Mar.    I  am  a  candid  man  —  a  little  rough, 
Perchance,  sometimes,  yet  meaning  honestly. 
I  never  steal  upon  my  enemy, 
But  march  straight  to  him,  pounding  all  my  drums. 

Marq.    Your  enemy ! 

Cos.  Must  I  be  rated  one  ?     [Laughing.] 

Mar.    I  hope  not,  lady.     But  this  busy  world 
Buzzed  ugly  sounds  — unlike  your  pretty  bird's  — 
Into  my  ears,  as  I  walked  hither. 

Marq.  •  Well ! 

Would  you  out-stare  each  other  ? 

Mar.  Bluntly,  then  : 

'T  is  said  —  I  hope  without  foundation,  lady  — 
A  bird  is  not  the  only  company 
Of  your  long  walks  and  pauses  in  the  Park. 
One  gossip  winks,  and  swells  his  windy  cheeks, 
As  I  go  by  ;  then  gluts  his  brother's  ears 
With  a  low,  stealthy  tale,  told  in  fierce  whispers,  — 
Of  how  you  wander  with  a  cavalier, 
Pensive  and  silent,  treading  down  the  flowers, 
That  glitter  so  amid  the  dark-green  grass, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  69 

As  if  you  really  cared  not  to  blot  out 
God's  handiwork.      Another  has  a  tale, 
Fetched  through  a  multitude  of  serving-men  — 
But  all  truth  's  truth,  he  will  go  bail  for  that  — 
Of  how  this  self-same  cavalier  was  seen 
Upon  his  knees  to  you  —  to  you  !     At  this 
The  whole  fraternity  smile  forth  a  sigh, 
And  pity  poor,  dull  Marsio.     Lady  mine, 
I  loathe  man's  pity  !     Is  there  aught  in  this  ? 
Whom  saw  you  yesterday  ?  —  the  day  before  ? 
You  do  not  answer. 

Cos.  First,  sir,  by  what  right 

Do  you  advance  the  question  ? 

March.  Answer,  child. 

You  are  betrothed :  he  has  a  right  from  that. 

Marq.    He  has  not,  madam  ;  nor  will  I  permit 
My  daughter  to  be  catechised. 

Mar.     (Aside.)  Ho  !  ho  ! 

I  '11  tame  you  shortly. 

Cos.  Signore  Marsio, 

Do  not  misjudge  me.     Till  my  wedding-day, 
My  erring  acts  will  fall  on  me  alone. 
When  I  do  aught  to  peril  my  fair  name  — 
Which,  now,  I  hold  you  have  no  check  upon  — 
I  shall  be  first  to  show  it,  and  absolve  you 
From  all  your  obligations.     Until  then, 
I  am  the  proper  guardian  of  my  conduct. 

Marq.    Well  spoken,  daughter ! 

March.  You  maintain  her  folly. 

Mar.    You  '11  not  deny  it  ? 

March.  'T  is  but  a  word,  love  — 

Nay,  for  your  mother's  sake. 

Marq.  For  my  sake,  peace  ! 


"TO  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Cos.    Neither  will  I  deny  it,  nor  affirm  it. 

Mar.    You  dare  not,  dare  not ! 

Cos.  Signore  Marsio  !  — 

Mar.    By  heaven  !  I  credit  — 

Cos.  Listen  to  me,  sir. 

Our  marriage  contract  is  not  ratified  ; 
Tear  it,  I  beg  you.  1  have  no  desire 
To  hold  you  to  it,  if  you  doubt  my  truth. 

Marq.    Ay,  ay  !  tear  up  the  parchment. 

Mar.  No,  no,  no  ! 

What,  would  you  bait  me  ?  —  Look,  Tiburzzi,  look 
The  galled  beast  turn  not  on  you  !     I  have  here  — 
No,  no  ;  I  have  at  home,  in  safest  hands  — 
That  which  shall  beggar  you.     I  hold  your  debts  — 
All  that  heaven  left  your  miserable  name  — 
Under  my  mercy  !     Yes,  I  bought  them  up 
For  half-price,  sir  —  your  credit  has  run  low  — 
By  the  sweet  saints,  I  '11  use  them  ! 

March.  Patience,  signore ! 

Mar.    I  am  all  patience,  when  I  am  well  used. 

March.    You  see  our  situation. 

[Apart  to  the  MAKQUIS.] 

Marq.  We  are  toiled, 

Trammelled,  betrayed,  by  this  damned  usurer ! 
The  Duke  shall  hear  me. 

Mar.  Ah  !  the  Duke,  the  Duke  ! 

Above  the  Duke  sits  Justice,  robed  in  law, 
His  mistress  and  the  state's.     Best  pray  to  heaven  : 
They  say  its  tardy  mercy  's  sure  at  last. 

Marq.    Graceless  blasphemer  !     Here  to  heaven  I 

cry, — 
The  gray-haired  father  of  this  child,  ensnared 


THE    BETROTHAL.  71 

By  arts  beneath  the  cunning  of  a  thief,  — 
Against  a  heartless  villain  ! 

Cos.  0,  be  calm  ! 

No  harm  shall  touch  you.     Signore  Marsio, 
I  will  abide  the  contract. 

Marq.  You  shall  not ! 

What,  do  you  love  him  yet  ?     You  never  did  : 
'Twas  feigned,  to  save  me. 

Cos.  As  much  as  ever. 

Marq.    My  curses   drag  you  down   to   his  base 
level !  — 

Cos.   My  father — 0,   my   father!      God  forgive 

you; 

You  've  made  my  father  mad  !     Come  hither,  sir. 
Walk  with  me  —  help  him,  mother  —  with  Costanza. 
Nay,  lean  on  me.     Your  little  daughter,  father,  — 
Only  a  child.     Here  is  the  same  poor  head 
You  used  to  bless  so.     I  will  tell  you  all : 
I  cannot  here.     That's  kind.     Now  come  with  me. 
You  should  respect  him,  signore  Marsio. 
I  hold  you  to  the  contract. 
[Exit  the  MARQUIS,  supported  by  COSTANZA  and  the  MARCHIONESS.] 

Mar.  Well  for  you.  — 

The  devil  broil  you  all !     0,  yes,  my  lord, 
Whisper  your  daughter,  lower  upon  your  wife  ; 
I  '11  mate  you  yet,  for  ail  your  starving  pride ; 
Ay,  and  I  '11  find  your  lover,  lady  mine. 
You  have  him,  yes,  you  have  him,  to  console 
Your  wretched  wifehood.     Should  he  see  the  day 
Whereon  I  wed  you  —  if  he  be  not  off, 
Even  at  this  moment,  to  the  antipodes  — 
May  I  be  wed  and  buried  in  one  hour  ! 
'Ods  love  !  fool  me  — fool  Marsio  !  —  Ha  !  ha ! 

[Exit,  laughing.] 


72  THE    BETROTHAL. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  House  of  MARSIO.     MARSIO  and  PIETRO  Roao 

Marsio.   JURANIO  —  Count  Juranio  —  who  is  lie  ? 

Eogo.    The  people's  darling-,  the  nobility's 
Envy  and  general  pattern,  the  good  Duke's 
Prime  favorite  arid  most  familiar  friend. 
You  will  encounter  no  one,  high  or  low, 
Who  speaks  not  well  of  him. 

Mar.  Rich  ? 

Eogo.  Marvellously ; 

He  beggars  you. 

Mar.  Hum  !     Handsome  ? 

Rogo.  Love-sick  girls, 

In  dreams,  bedeck  the  object  of  their  thoughts 
With  no  such  beauty  as  our  mere  calm  sense 
Must  render  him  perforce. 

Mar.  Pietro  Rogo, 

I  am  not  handsome. 

Eogo.  Ho  !  ho  !  —  Why  no,  no  !     [Laughing.] 

Neither  outside  nor  in. 

Mar.  I  do  not  see 

The  justice  of  it,  Pietro.     Why  chance 
Crowds  this  man's  clay  into  Apollo's  mould, 
Yet   scrapes   the   fair,    plump   flesh   from   my  lank 

fingers, 

From  my  gaunt,  bony  arms,  from  my  crook'd  legs  — 
Scoops  out  my  narrow  chest  —  from  every  part, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  3 

Where  usage  orders,  steals  my  buxom  matter, 

To  pile  it  in  one  lump  upon  my  back ; 

Making1  me  hideous  with  the  very  stuff 

She  uses  to  create  a  paragon. 

Why  this  should  be,  I  say,  amazes  me, 

And  gravels  reason.     Well,  to  kick  at  fate 

Is  but  a  laming  trick.     My  reptile  form, 

At  least,  contains  the  reptile's  cunning.     Now, 

There  is  some  justice  there.     Perhaps  your  Count, 

For  all  his  beauty,  lacks  the  use  of  it. 

Has  this  fair  shape  a  mind  ? 

Eogo.  We  '11  see  anon. 

The  people  give  him  out  as  full  perfection. 
What  said  your  lady-love  ? 

Mar.  Ah !  there 's  the  doubt ; 

I  cannot  fathom  her. 

Eogo.  Nor  ever  will. 

When  you  believe  you  touch  the  lowest  depths 
Of  women's  hearts,  there  's  something  still  beneath, 
You  wot  not  of. 

Mar.  Tush  !  Pietro  :  I  tell  you 

I  hold  my  friend  Tiburzzi  in  a  leash, 
To  come  and  go  as  I  may  whistle  him. 

Eogo.   How  bears  he  that  ? 

Mar.  He  struggled  for  a  while  ; 

But  when  I  hinted  what  a  time  they  pass 
Who  tug  their  lives  out  at  a  galley's  oar, 
Neither  for  gain  nor  pleasure  ;  how  to  row 
Even  a  shallop,  without  any  aim, 
Would  be  a  sad  thing ;  and  described  a  hulk 
As  something  bulkier  than  Costanza's  shoe  ; 
When,  to  all  this,  I  hinted  doubtful  fears 


74  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Of  his  dear  daughter's  fate,  if  he  were  gone, 
lie  grew  a  rival  for  the  meekest  dove. 

Eogo.    You  are  a  villain,  Marsio. 

Mar.  I  know  it : 

I  'm  what  is  called  a  villain  by  a  world 
That  sees  its  huge  face  in  my  little  glass. 
'T  is  false  !  I  am  no  villain.     I  am  one 
Who  must  achieve  what  my  heart  prompts  me  to, 
Or  be  no  more  forever.     I  'm  as  well 
As  any  man  who  works  his  purposes, 
Despite  his  fears. 

Eogo.  For  all  your  interview, 

You  still  are  doubtful.     Why  not  give  her  up  ? 
I  would  far  rather  wed  a  Magdalen 
Than  a  suspected  woman.     Doubts  and  fears 
Make  up  full  half  the  substance  of  our  ills. 

Mar.    I  '11  solve  my  doubts  before  the  wedding- 
day. 

If  she  prove  true,  I  gain  a  trusty  wife  ; 
If  she  do  not  —  why,  even  as  I  said, 
Tiburzzi  rows  a  galley.     I  will  have 
My  wife  or  my  revenge.     Gods  !  Pietro, 
The  girl  looks  chaste. 

Eogo.  Looks  chaste  !  —  0,  save  us  !  —  looks  ! 

Yet  that  might  cozen  one.     I  often  gaze 
Upon  a  piece  of  ruined  womanhood 
With  strange,  blind  feelings  —  a  blank  wonderment 
That  one  so  fair,  so  chaste,  to  outward  show, 
Must  by  the  cautious  intellect  be  held 
As  mere  corruption.     There  's  a  fearful  jar 
Betwixt  the  heart  and  brain  upon  this  theme. 

Mar.    I  have  an  ordeal  for  her.     It  may  be 
That  Count  Juranio  knelt  and  prayed  to  her, 


THE    BETROTHAL. 

As  sinners  do  to  the  shut  ear  of  heaven, 
With  bootless  zeal. 

Eogo.  Yes  ;  even  that  might  be. 

Mar.   You  are  lenient  to-day. 

Eogo.  Low-spirited, 

Dyspeptic. 

Mar.       Ah  !     Here  is  my  little  plan. 
Tiburzzi  dare  refuse  me  nothing :  I 
Will  bring  together  the  enamored  Count 
And  his  fair  idol ;  —  yea,  I  will  cast  in 
His  friend,  fierce  signore  Salvatore.     Thus 
His  Countship  shall  have  scope,  unbounded  room  ; 
Tempted  by  love  on  one  side,  on  the  other 
Urged  up  by  valor.     I  will  throw  Costanza 
And  the  sweet  Count,  ablaze  'twixt  love  and  wrath, 
Into  incessant  contact,  while  I  watch 
The  play  my  puppets  make.  — Ha,  Pietro  ? 

Eogo.   Blast  your  dark  plots !     But  reason  splits 

on  you ; 
You  '11  have  your  way. 

Mar.  That  will  I.     Come  with  me. 

I  '11  take  you  to  Tiburzzi's  house.     Perchance 
He  '11  hold  me  better  for  my  company.  — 
Ha,  Pietro  ? 

Eogo.        Ha,  Marsio  !     Sneer,  sneer ! 
I  will  not  go. 

Mar.  You  fear  Tiburzzi  ? 

Eogo.  No ! 

Curse  your  Tiburzzi !     Would  you  take  me  there, 
As  a  set  off  to  your  own  awkwardness  ? 

Mar.   Ho  !  ho  !  well  thought !  [Laughing.] 

Eogo.  I  '11  meet  you  in  the  Park. 


76  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Let  me  have  notice  when  this  pretty  plot, 
Against  your  own  repose,  is  toward. 

Mar.  Yes. 

Rogo.   You'll  rue  your  plotting.     Crime  has  its 

degrees  ; 
Wade  in  its  shallows,  and  you  drown  at  last. 

Mar,   Lord,  Pietro  !  what  a  good  man  you  are  ! 

[Laughing.] 

Rogo.   I  '11  have  the  laugh  upon  you  shortly,  sir, 
If  I  know  aught  of  woman. 

Mar.  That  would  be 

A  bitter  laugh  for  old  Tiburzzi.     No  ; 
It  must  end  well.     Costanza  will  prove  true  ; 
My  test  will  school  her  virtue,  not  destroy  it ; 
And  Count  Juranio  — 

Rogo.  Well,  well,  what  of  him  ? 

I  partly  love  the  boy,  men  speak  so  fairly. 

Mar.    Why,  so  do  I.    But  he  must  feel  his  trespass  ; 
Know  what  it  is  to  woo  a  man's  betrothed. 
That  were  a  moral  lesson,  fitly  taught 
For  his  soul's  health.     But  lightly,  Pietro  — 
I  will  but  check  him  with  a  father's  hand  — 
Quite  lightly,  Pietro.     Ha,  ha !  poor  boy,  [Laughing.'} 
He  will  not  need  correction  more  than  once. 
Come,  come,  to  business !     Love  has  played  wild 

tricks 
With  my  neglected  balances,  of  late.  [Exeunt.] 


THE    BETROTHAL.  7 

SCENE  H. 
The  House  of  JURANIO.     Enter  JURANIO  and  SALVATORE. 

Salvatore.    Cheer  up,  Juranio  !     Do  not  hug  your 

grief; 

All  that  is  lovable  in  you  is  wasting 
Before  its  sickly  drought.     Remember,  man, 
You  are  supported  by  a  deity. 
The  blind  brat,  Love,  despite  his  want  of  eyes, 
Will  find  you  out  a  way  to  win  at  last. 
Trust  your  own  idol.     Shame  upon  despair  ! 

Juranio.    You  talk,  to  cheer  me,  with  a  cheerless 

heart ; 

Between  your  words,  your  face  is  sad  as  mine. 
Salves  for  a  mortal  wound,  drugs  for  the  dead, 
Hopes  for  the  hopeless  ! 

Sal.  Every  thought 's  astray. 

Why,  all  things  are  merely  as  we  behold  them, 
Taking  such  qualities  as  we  bestow. 
One  only  looks  at  the  bright  side  of  things  ; 
And  he  's  your  gull,  the  prey  of  all  mankind. 
Another  gloats  upon  the  darker  side, 
Pleasing  himself  with  self-inflicted  pain ; 
And  he  's  your  misanthrope.     Another  scans 
Both  bright  and  dark,  with  a  calm>  equal  eye  ; 
Lo  !  your  philosopher.     But  then  —  now  mark  — 
Comes  up  the  happy  soul  who  looks  at  nothing, 
Yet  turns  whatever  is  to  present  pleasure  ; 
Tastes  Fiascone  in  thin  Pavian  wine  ; 
Wallows  in  down  upon  a  bed  of  straw  ; 
Smells  roses  in  a  swine-yard  ;  hears  sweet  tones 
From  the  harsh,  grating  rasps  of  puffing  smiths  ; 


78  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Beholds  the  sunshine  glorify  the  flower, 
And  change  all  nature  to  one  merry  hue, 
Beneath  the  duskest  sky  of  bare  December. 
Here  's  your  true  liver,  kinsman  mine  !     A  man 
Who  neither  fools,  nor  frowns,  nor  calculates, 
But  dreams  away  this  aching  thing  called  life  : 
Make  him  your  model.     If  your  lady  frown, 
Why,  look  up  one  who  smiles. 

Ju.  Dear  Salvatore, 

'T  is  but  a  vain  attempt  to  reason  down 
Our  smallest  feeling.     The  mind's  snow  may  lie 
A  dreary  winter  on  the  torpid  heart, 
Yet  never  kill  it.     Slack  the  rigor  once, 
And,  like  a  violet  that  leans  its  cheek 
In  mockery  against  some  melting  drift, 
Up  springs  the  heart,  more  fruitful  for  its  rest. 

(Enter  PULTI,  singing.) 

Pulii.    So  the  devil  was  wroth 
At  the  gentlemen  both, 

Though  no  one  could  fathom  his  matters ; 
And  he  dashed  around  hell, 
Like  a  dog  tailed  with  bell, 

And  tore  all  his  dwelling  to  tatters  1 

Sal.   Well,  Pulti,  well  ? 

Pul.  Signore,  it  is  not  well. 

I  am  beaten  to  a  cripple  ;  I  must  leave  ; 
I  cannot  stand  your  service  longer. 

Sal.  Why  ? 

Pul.   Marsio  is  mad.     Would  you  could  see 

now  I 
He  foams  and  rages  round  his  frighted  house 


THE    BETROTHAL.  79 

Like  a  bear  newly  caged.     He  's  full  of  cursea, 

Full  of  dire  threats  against  some  hapless  foes  ; 

And  every  time  he  passes  me  —  0  Lord  !  — 

My  humble  manner  seems  to  prick  him  so  — 

He  takes  compassion  on  his  enemies, 

And  deals  me  half  their  vengeance.     See  me,  sir  1 

I  am  basted  like  a  piece  of  English  beef : 

I  had  just  strength  to  crawl  here,  and  no  more. 

Sal.    Who  has  enraged  him  ? 

Pul.  That  I  cannot  tell. 

Two  gentlemen,  I  judge,  by  what  I  hear : 
By  what  I  feel,  I  judge  these  gentlemen 
Must  bear  a  striking  likeness  to  myself. 

Sal.   Can  he  suspect  ? 

Ju.  What  is  there  to  suspect  ? 

The  length  that  I  can  enter  in  his  thoughts 
Would  be  a  comfort  to  him.     As  for  you, 
Doubtless  he  has  forgotten  you  ere  met : 
These  merchants  have  no  care  for  points  of  honor. 

Sal.    But  — 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Servant.         Signore  Marsio. 

Sal.  What,  what  ? 

Pul  The  devil  I 

0,  could  I  clamber  to  the  frozen  moon, 
And  cut  away  my  ladder ! 

Ju.  How  is  this  ?. 

Sal.    What  said  you,  sirrah  ? 

Serv.  Signore  Marsio  waits. 

Ju.    Admit  him.  [Exit  Servant."] 

Pul.  0,  I  beg  you,  sir  — 


80  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Sal.  Here,  Pulti, 

Into  this  room. 

Pul.  Avaunt !     A  priest,  a  priest !      [Exit.] 

Sal.    What  can  this  mean  ? 

Ju.  Marsio  will  tell  us  that. 

(Enter  MAKSIO.) 

Marsio.    Am  I  intrusive  ? 

Ju.  0  no  ;  welcome,  sir  ! 

Mar.   A  good-day  to  you,  signore  Salvatore  I 
We  have  met  once  before. 

Sal.  Good-day  to  you  ! 

He  claims  acquaintance  on  strange  introductions. 

[Aside.] 

Mar.   You  wonder  at  my  coming,  gentlemen. 
I  am  but  agent  for  my  lord,  the  Marquis. 
He  honors  my  betrothal  to  his  daughter 
With  a  small  feast  to-night.     We  want  but  guests. 
Knowing  a  sadly-broken  intercourse 
Had  once  existed  'twixt  your  name  and  his, 
I  volunteered  to  bear  my  lord's  respects 
And  humble  wishes  to  you.     May  we  hope  ? 

Sal.    Why,  signore  — 

Ju.  We  will  come. 

Sal.  How,  Count  ? 

Ju.  We  '11  come. 

I  rage  with  thirst ;  the  sweet  I  cannot  taste, 
I  '11  drain  the  bitter  to  the  very  lees, 
And  she  shall  see  it !  [Aside.] 

Mar.  Further,  gentlemen  — 

Though  I  am  trenching  on  fair  courtesy  — 
Could  you  not  pass  the  day  —  'tis  early  yet  — 
With  the  good  Marquis  ?     So  preparing  you, 


THE    BETROTHAL.  81 

By  slow  degrees  of  interchanged  regard, 
For  more  familiar  greetings  at  the  feast. 
I  push  your  kindness  ;  but  my  lord's  content, 
And  a  desire  for  your  unfrozen  ease, 
Is  my  sole  object. 

Ju.  Yes  1  by  all  the  gods  ! 

Mar.   Ha  !  why  this  energy  ?   (Aside.)   You  shame 

my  thanks 

By  more  than  noble  courtesy.     Farewell ! 
Within  an  hour  my  horses  will  be  round. 
Ju.   Expect  to  meet  us. 
Mar.  Lo  !  the  trap  is  set. 

Look  how  you  tread,  my  courtly  innocents, 
Or  Herod's  bloody  day  shall  come  again  ! 

[Aside.    Exit] 
Sal.     A   strange   request :    I   think  him   honest, 

though. 

Ju.   I  care  not  what  he  be. 
Sal.  The  saints  protect  us  ! 

You  ;re  roaring  drunk  with  love  and  jealousy, 
Blind  and  incapable. 

Ju.  I  'd  reach  the  worst. 

To  be  forever  baited  by  my  passions 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear.     My  hopes  and  fears 
Tear  me  to  pieces.     I  am  man  enough 
To  toss  despair  into  the  grave  of  love  ; 
But  these  sweet  tortures  of  insidious  hope 
Oppose  no  front  to  armed  fortitude. 

Sal.   Now  you  talk  sanely.     When  you  come  to 

blows  — 

To  strangling  passion,  burying  despair, 
And  setting  up  a  commonwealth  of  reason  — 
VOL.  H.        6 


82  THE   BETROTHAL. 

My  heart  fights  with  you.    You  shall  have  your  way. 
Ho  !  for  Tiburzzi ! 

(Reenter  PULTI.) 

PuUi,  Signore  Salvatore,  [Sings.] 

0  !  pray  what  said  the  devil, 
With  his  cloven  tongue  of  evil, 

As  he  drew  his  hoof  under  his  gown  ? 
Why,  to  them  he  said  sweetly, 
Sweet  gentlemen,  I  greet  ye  I 

But  he  wished  they  might  hang,  starve,  and  drown. 

Sal.   Whate'er  he   wished,   he    spoke   us   fairly, 
Pulti. 

Pul.    I  heard  it  all.     Beware  of  Marsio  ! 
You  know  him  not,  as  I  do.     I  suspect 
You  are  the  gentlemen  who  woke  his  wrath. 

Ju.    Pish  !  how  ? 

Pul.  Do  we  not  often  fall  to  hating 

For  the  same  cause  we  mostly  fall  to  loving  — 
Simply,  for  none  at  all  ?     Perhaps  your  cloak 
Is  of  a  hateful  dye  in  Marsio's  eyes  ; 
You  grow  moustaches,  but  he  loathes  a  beard ; 
Your  dress  is  much  too  dandified  ;  your  hat 
Worn  too  much  on  one  side  ;  your  cheeks 
Hint  of  the  roses,  and  he  scorns  a  rose  ; 
Your  hair  is  raven  black,  —  "  Out  upon  black  !  " 
Says  Marsio  ;  "  black  hairs  thatch  empty  heads." 
Here  is  enough  to  raise  a  riot,  sirs, 
And  overturn  a  state.     Why  will  you  go  ? 

1  am  sure  he  means  you  ill. 

Sal.  Why  think  you  so  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL. 


83 


Pul.    I  cannot  tell ;  I  have  no  reason  for  it ; 
My  mind  jumped  to  that  end. 

Ju.  We  waste  time,  kinsman. 

Pul.    0  !  do  not,  do  not  go  ! 

Ju.  Peace,  sirrah,  peace  ! 

Pul.    I  have  more  interest  in  you,  gentlemen, 
Than  your  best  gold  can  buy.     You  are  the  first, 
For  many  a  weary  day,  who  've  made  me  feel 
The  simple  worth  and  dignity  of  man. 
I  've  hidden  my  heart  under  outrageous  mirth  — 
0,  heaven  !  how  sad  it  beat  there  !  —  till  my  jests 
Became  a  natural  language.     I  have  lived 
To  sneer,  and  to  be  beaten  ;  all  content 
If  my  poor  wit  were  sharper  than  the  blows. 
I  love  you  for  your  kindness.  — Hear  me,  sirs  — 
I  'd  rather  see  this  fair  world  torn  to  shreds, 
Than  harm  befall  you. 

Ju.  I  respect  your  grief; 

And  were  my  life  not  centred  in  this  thing, 
Your  single  wish  should  sway  me.     Salvatore  — 
What,  you  hold  off! 

Sal.  You  know  for  whom  I  do  it. 

Pul.    If  Marsio  escape  my  eyes  to-day, 
May  I  want  eyes  to  see  him  on  the  morrow  !  [Aside.] 

Ju.    I  '11  go  alone.     You  cannot  balk  me  thus. 
Were  Marsio  the  devil  Pulti  sings, 
I  would  confront  him.     Ere  the  night  set  in, 
I  shall  be  free  ;  or  —  Down,  ye  maddening  hopes  I 
0  1  were  your  whispers  certain  prophecy  I    [ Exeunt.] 


84  THE    BETROTHAL. 


SCENE    IH. 

Jl  Room  in  the  Castle  of  the  MARQUIS.     Enter  COSTANZA  and 
FILIPPIA. 

Filippia.    After  this  treatment  of  your  father,  too  ? 
Costanza.    Yes,  yes.     Each  act  which  sinks  him  in 

my  mind, 

Binds  me  more  closely  to  him.     I  but  think 
Of  my  poor  father,  feeble,  heart-sick,  dying, 
With  nothing  but  the  mercy  of  this  man 
Between  him  and  the  galleys.     Gracious  heaven  ! 
Marsio  dared  threaten  him  with  even  that, 
While  all  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
Looked   on   him   through   the   windows  !     Do   men 

think  t 

That  this  vast  theatre  of  their  wickedness  — 
With  its  brave  lights  of  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  — 
Its  shifting  scenes,  from  Spring  around  to  Winter  — 
Its  moving  canopies  of  cloudy  blue  — 
Is  crowded  with  a  spiritual  audience, 
Keeping  mute  watch  upon  our  lightest  acts  ? 

Fil.    Ah  me  !  I  know  not.     Musing  minds,  like 

yours, 

Ask  questions  without  answers.     Save  my  eyes  ! 
Are  these  things  phantoms  ? 

(Enter  MAKSIO,  JUBANIO,  and  SALVATORE.) 

Marsio.  Good-day,  ladies  I  —  How  ! 

Are  we  infringing  on  your  privacy  ? 
Pray,  what  disturbs  you  ?     Nay,  we  will  withdraw. 

Cos.    Stay,  signore  :  you  mistake  us. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  85 

Mar.  By  your  leave, 

I  bring  two  friends  of  mine,  or  rather  guests  — 
Guests  for  the  present,  friends  henceforth  I  hope  — 
To  share  our  feast  to-night.     Receive  them  kindly  ; 
For  they  deserve  no  less.     Let  me  present, 
Lady  Costanza,  Count  Juranio. 

Cos.   Sir,  we  have  met  before.  — 

Mar.  Ah  !  so  indeed  ? 

A  chance  acquaintance,  doubtless.     As  my  friend, 
He  asks  a  double  share  of  your  regard. 
Mistress  Filippia,  signore  Salvatore  : 
I  pray  you  know  him. 

Fil.  Do  not  jeer  at  me ! 

You  know  we  've  met  before.     I  will  not  stand 
To  be  a  butt  for  your  dull,  headless  jokes  ! 

Mar.    Gently,  my  little  lady,  gently  now  ! 
Do  I  o'erstrain  good  breeding?     Have  you  had 
A  formal  introduction  to  my  friend  ? 

Salvatore.    'Sblood,  signore  Marsio  — 

Mar.  Banish  all  restraint. 

Swear  if  you  list,  dear  Salvatore,  swear  ! 
The  ladies  will  forgive  you,  for  my  sake. 
Hang  on  no  ceremonious  usages. 
I  beg  you  '11  know  each  other.     Laugh,  dance,  sing ; 
Open  all  avenues  to  fellowship  ; 
For,  by  my  hopes  of  wedded  bliss,  old  Time 
Shall  make  oblation  of  this  day,  at  least, 
To  rouse  the  gods  of  genial  jollity  ! 
Where  hide  the  old  folk  ?    Let  us  seek  them. —  What, 
You  laggards  !  —  Forward,  to  the  stretching  Park  ! 
Stone  walls  cramp  action.     Lead  my  lady  forth, 
Good  Count  Juranio.     Why,  you  stand  amazed  ; 
Dismal  as  death  !     Cannot  a  man  be  gay, 


86  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Without  your  wonder  ?   Count,  conduct  your  charge 

I  give  you  a  safe  escort,  lady  mine. 

Now,  Salvatore,  buckle  sweet  Filippia 

Under  your  strong  right-arm.     I  '11  follow  you, 

With  nothing  but  my  mirth  for  company. 

Sal.    Can  Marsio  be  mad  ?  [Apart  to  FILIPPIA.] 

Fil.  Heaven  only  knows  ! 

My  heart  is  fluttering  at  a  fearful  rate. 

[Apart  to  SALVATORE.] 

[Exeunt  COSTANZA  and  JURANIO,  FILIPPIA  and  SALVATORE.] 
Mar.    So,  well  done,  now  1    Lord  !  how  they  fall  to 

talking ! 

My  presence  must  have  been  a  chill  upon  them. 
Bless  us  !  Filippia 's  all  alive  with  speech  ; 
Arms    and    hands    going  —  how    she    brings   them 

down  !  — 
Clinching  some  sentence,  through  and  through,  with 

truth. 

And  now  she  darts  her  head  and  curving  neck, 
Like  an  affronted  swan.     Ha  !  quiet  yet, 
Costanza,  pensive  still !     And  your  fine  Count 
Striding  as  at  a  funeral !     Why  is  this  ? 
Where  's  your  love-rhetoric  ?    Heaven  speed  ye  all ! 
The  twigs  you  tread  are  limed.     Join  wits  with  me  I 
Who  is  the  fooler  now  ?  who  are  the  fooled  ?     [Exit.] 


SCENE   IV. 
The  Park.    Enter  COSTANZA  and  JURANIO. 

Costanza.    Where  are  our  friends  ? 

Juranio.  They  have  deserted  us. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  87 

Cos.    Let  us  return  to  them.  —  Why  came  you 
here  ? 

Ju.    To  be  a  guest  at  your  betrothal-feast. 

Cos.    But  was  that  kindly  done  ? 

Ju.  I  cannot  say  : 

One,  more  or  less,  can  make  small  difference. 

Cos.    Sir,  you  dissemble  with  me. 
'  Ju.  Do  I,  lady  ? 

Who  taught  the  lesson  ? 

Cos.  Is  it  manly  in  you 

To  seek  so  poor  a  victory  over  me  ? 
Perchance,  you  thought  to  see  my  features  pale, 
My  eyes  swim  blindly,  and  my  limbs  give  way, 
When  you  approached  me  first.  —  You  did  not,  sir ! 
Perchance  you  think  when,  at  the  festival, 
They  toast  my  union  with  Marsio, 
To  see  me  falter,  nay,  to  faint  outright  — 
A  crowning  triumph  for  your  vanity.  — 
You  shall  not,  sir  I     0  !  Count  Juranio, 
This  is  unworthy  a  less  man  than  you  ! 

Ju.    As  you  behold  it ;  but  you  wrong  me  much. 
Why  have  you  ever  held  me  in  contempt  ? 
Why  have  you  sought  the  motives  of  my  acts 
Among  the  lowest  heaven  allows  the  base  ? 
Why  have  you  turned  my  honest  love  aside 
With  irony  ?     I  never  wronged  you,  lady, — 
No,  by  my  soul,  neither  in  word  nor  thought ! 
I  never  wished  to  tempt  you  into  ill, 
With  the  bare  modest  offering  of  my  love. 
Why  do  you  fly  a  gentleman's  regard, 
And  fix  you  on  this  loveless  Marsio  ? 

Cos.    These  are  strange  questions,  Count  Juranio. 
After  to-day,  our  paths  lie  far  apart ; 


80  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Pledge  me  your  honor  ne'er  to  see  me  more, 
And  I  will  answer.  —  Nay  ;  my  fate  is  fixed. 

Ju.    You  will  not  understand  me  :  your  ill  thoughts 
Stretch  to  futurity,  arid  hint  at  things 
Beyond  my  heart's  conception.     I  would  rather, 
Far  rather,  know  your  holy  chastity 
Were  pining  in  a  dungeon  —  dying  —  dead  — 
Than  clasp  your  blighted  beauty  in  my  arms, 
With  Helen's  charms  joined  to  it ! 

Cos.  Gentle  sir, 

You  misconceive  me.     I  would  spare  the  pangs, 
The  fearful  struggles,  which  our  love  — 

Ju.  "Our  love!" 

Cos.   Ay,  ay  !  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you  1 
I  tell  it  to  you  with  a  breaking  heart : 
I  must  speak  once,  though  ruin  follow  it. 
A  little  while,  and  this  still  agony 
Shall  vanish  from  existence  ;  yes,  the  sod 
Will  rest  as  quietly  above  my  grave 
As  o'er  a  yearling  infant's. 

Ju.  Happiness ! 

Costanza,  dearest, —  turn  not  from  me  now  : 
I  am  all  yours.     0  !  I  have  loved  you  long : 
I  '11  spend  my  life  in  telling  you  how  much. 
Do  not  allow  cold  fancies  to  tread  down 
These  buds  of  joyous  promise.     There  is  naught 
Between  us  and  the  fulness  of  our  hopes, 
Save  feeble  Marsio. 

Cos.  A  giant ! 

Ju.  No ; 

A  very  pigmy.     Dearest,  do  not  shun  me. 

Cos.    I  pray  you,  Count,  remove  your  hands  from 
me  — 


THE    BETROTHAL.  89 

My  father's  life  hangs  on  my  constancy  — 
Away,  sir,  I  am  sacred  ! 

Ju.  Spurned  again  I 

Do  you  act  thus  to  torture  me  ?     0  !  answer  ! 
Is  cruelty  your  practice,  grief  your  sport  ? 
You  walk  in  mystery  ;  every  deed  is  blank 
And  purposeless  to  me. 

Cos.  Forbear,  forbear! 

You  should  not  taunt  me  thus.     My  destiny 
Tramples  on  love,  and  overrules  my  life. 

0  !  tempt  me  not ! 

Ju.  Explain,  explain  yourself. 

1  would  not  think  unworthily  of  you. 

Cos.    You  know  my  father's  poverty  — 

Ju.  Yes,  yes ; 

And  to  enrich  him  —  for  his  sake  alone  — 
Am  I  not  right  ?  —  you  marry  Marsio. 

Cos.    Quite  right.    But  my  betrothal  was  performed 
Ere  —  ere  — 

Ju.  You  loved  me.     But  what  hinders  now  ? 

Cos.    My  father's  debts  were  large,  strewn  here 

and  there, 

The  wide  accumulation  of  old  dues 
Gathered  for  ages  round  our  sinking  house. 
Marsio  knew  this,  and  bought  the  scattered  claims 
For  a  bare  trifle  ;  though  the  full  amount 
Would  beggar  a  state's  revenue  to  pay. 
He  held  these  debts  —  alas  !  that  I  can  say  it 
Of  one  to  whom  I  must  be  linked  for  life  !  — 
Above  my  father's  helpless  head,  and  swore 
Either  to  wed  me,  or  to  send  my  father  — 
Think  of  it,  signore,  an  infirm  old  man, 


90  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Full  of  ancestral  pride  and  gentle  thoughts  — 

Yes,  to   send  him  —  chained,  coupled,    mixed  with 

thieves  — 
Even  to  the  galleys  1 

Ju.  The  outrageous  wretch  ! 

I  '11  bury  him  in  gold  ! 

Cos.  Too  late,  too  late  ! 

Though  you  held  all  the  Indies  in  your  fee. 
Upon  the  threat  —  from  which  no  prayers  could  move 

him  — 

I  promised  Marsio,  most  solemnly, 
To  keep  my  marriage-plight. 

Ju.  Alas  !  I  mourn 

More  for  your  fate  than  for  the  loss  of  you. 

(Enter,  behind,  MARSIO  and  PIETBO  ROGO,  observing  them.) 

Is  there  no  way  ?     Yes,  yes  ;  the  Duke  — 

Cos.  The  Duke ! 

The  holy  Pope,  himself,  is  naught  to  me 
Before  my  promise. 

Ju.  Lady,  do  but  think 

Of  the  long  life  of  weary  misery 
That  lies  before  you. 

Cos.  I  have  thought  of  that. 

Will  you  attend  the  feast  now  ? 

Ju.  I  am  bound, 

Almost  by  oath,  to  Marsio. 

Cos.  Indeed !  — 

Ju.   After  the  feast  —  0  heaven!  have  mercy  on 

me  ! 

I  cannot,  cannot  yield  you.     Chance,  nay,  heaven 
Has  thrown  me  in  your  way  to  succor  you. 
I  slighted  women  till  the  day  we  met : 


THE    BETROTHAL.  91 

Each  feeling  which  love's  prodigals  spread  out, 

In  lavish  wastefulness,  upon  your  sex, 

I  have  stored  up  to  tender  you  alone. 

Shall  all  be  lost  ?     Ah !  lady  —  [Kneels.] 

Gos.  Count,  be  strong  1 

Life  's  but  an  atom  of  eternity. 

Ju.    But  love  makes  life  immortal. 

Cos.  'T  is  in  vain  ; 

You  must  not  strive  to  weaken  my  resolve. 
Farewell ! 

Ju.        So  be  it,  then.     (Rising.)    Yet,  ere  you  go, 
Leave  some  remembrance  —  ay,  that  golden  cross 
Is  a  fit  emblem  of  my  martyred  love. 

Cos.    No,  no  ;  forget  me.     It  were  weakness,  sir, 
To  pamper  memory  with  a  toy  like  this. 
Yet  when  a  thought  of  me  will  come  to  you, 
Judge  me  not  harshly  —  as  of  one  who  died, 
Rich  in  rare  gifts,  bequeathing  you  no  part  — 
But  as  a  poor,  poor  friend,  who,  dying,  left 
All  she  possessed,  her  blessing. — May  God  bless 
you !  [Exit.] 

Ju.    0  !  fate  !  what  I  have  lost  I 

Eogo.  How  think  you  now  ? 

Marsio.    That  Count  Juranio  is  my  best  of  friends. 
He  proved  my  wife  the  soul  of  constancy. 
I  '11  love  him  from  this  day.     Why,  Pietro, 
I  do  not  see  you  laughing  at  me  —  ha  ! 

Rogo.    Be  quiet,  man  ;  my  laugh  may  come  at  last. 
Juranio  will  make  a  famous  friend, 
After  your  marriage.     Just  the  youth,  I  think, 
To  show  your  lady  to  a  masquerade  — 
To  hand  her  shawl  —  to  read  her  fiery  poems  — 


92  THE    BETROTHAL. 

To  dance  with  her  —  and  do  all  other  things 
Which  you  are  slow  at.  —  Ha  !  friend  Marsio  ? 

Mar.    Poor  fellow  !    Pietro,  I  almost  fear 
The  hapless  youth  will  pine  himself  to  death 
Ere  I  am  married  —  though  I  '11  stir  for  him  — 
I  fear  so,  Pietro.     Why,  look  you  now, 
He  has  a  dying  face  ;  so  strangely  pale  I 
Doubtless,  there  is  some  fatal  sickness  nigh, 
Which  this  sad  interview  has  hastened  on. 
Poor,  crest-fallen  lover  !     Let  us  speak  to  him. 

[They  advance.] 

Ho  !  Count  Juranio  !     What,  you  are  alone  ! 
Where  has  the  lady  gone  I  charged  you  with  ? 

0  !  faithless  guardian  I     On  my  honor,  Count, 

1  '11  never  trust  her  to  your  care  again.  — 
Would  you,  friend  Pietro  ? 

Ju.  She  just  departed. 

Some  duty  called  her  to  the  castle. 

Mar.  Ah ! 

Some  duty  past  persuasion  ;  or  no  doubt — 
So  high  I  value  sweet  Costanza's  charms  — 
You  'd  have  detained  her.  —  Ha  !  Count  ?  Now,  a 

youth, 

Of  your  fair  person,  should  have  ample  power 
To  hold  a  restive  maiden. 

Rogo.  How  he  rubs  him !      [Aside.] 

Ju.    I  did  not  urge  her  stay. 

Mar.  Indeed  !     Well,  well, 

You  lack  my  feelings  ;  —  but  I  cannot  hope 
That  all  the  world  will  look  through  lovers'  eyes. 
Here  's  signore  Salvatore,  and  alone  ! 
Fair  maids  are  in  discredit.     Save  you,  sir  ! 


THE    BETROTHAL.  93 


Salvatore.    A  moment  with  my  kinsman. 

Mar.  Ask  a  thousand. 

[JURANIO  and  SALVATORE  talk  apart."] 

Eogo.    The  devil  take  me,  if  you  have  a  heart  I 
I  would  not  worry  these  poor  boys  so  much, 
To  sway  the  dukedom. 

Mar.  Yes,  I  have  a  heart  — 

A  heart  which  these  poor  boys  would  trample  on. 
Did  I  not  wear  a  head  to  second  it. 
Even  now  they  scheme  to  compass  me. 
See,  the  plot  opens. 

Sal.  Signore  Marsio, 

You  are  a  merchant,  traffic  is  your  trade, 
You  look  on  all  things  under  heaven  as  worth 
Just  so  much  money.  — 

Mar.  Mark  you,  Pietro, 

Here 's  the  ideal  merchant.     Well  said,  signore  j 
A  golden  measure  is  a  certain  thing 
To  gauge  the  world  with. 

Sal.  Hold  you  anything 

You  have  not  measured  with  this  golden  rule  ? 
Have  you  aught  priceless  ? 

Mar.  Nothing — let  me  think. 

No  ;  there  is  naught  I  know  of. 

Sal.  Frankly,  then  ; 

What  is  Costanza's  value? 

Mar.  Ha !  ha !  ha !        [Laughing."} 

You  are  the  maddest  dog  in  Christendom ! 
Perchance,  you  are  serious  ?     Signore,  if  you  are  ? — 

Eogo.   Zounds  !  Marsio,  you  are  a  mean,  tame  fool, 
To  brook  this  insolence  !  [Apart  to  MAKSIO.] 


94  THE   BETROTHAL. 

Mar.  Bear  with  me,  friend.    [Apart  to  Eoao.] 

Sal.   My  words  were  plain  enough. 

Mar.  Well  —  let  me  see — 

I  should  receive  —  I  put  her  low  to  you  — 
At  least  ten  million  ducats.     I  will  give 
A  warranty  for  kindness,  soundness,  age  ;  — 
She  has  no  tricks, —  you  may  put  trust  in  her. 
Is  this  fair  dealing,  Pietro  ? 

Sogo.  Pshaw  !  pshaw  ! 

Sal.    You  jest  with  me. 

Mar.  Faith,  I  am  serious. 

Ten  million  is  a  serious  thing.     I  wish 
To  fit  some  argosies.     Ten  million  ducats  ! 
Within  a  year  I  'd  nearly  double  them. 
I  want  ten  million. 

Ju.  Take  them,  in  heaven's  name ! 

I  still  shall  have  my  little  villa  left 
Among  the  vineyards. 

Mar.  But  I  want  that  villa. 

Can  you  not  throw  it  in  ? 

Ju.  Most  gladly,  signore, 

Yet  be  your  debtor.     I  have  arms  to  work. 

Mar.    Now,  should  I  wish  a  limb  or  so  ?  — 

Sal.  Take  mine ; 

Leave  my  trunk  bare.     One  limb  of  mine  is  worth 
All  yonder  puny  fellow's. 

Mar.  Ha!  ha!  ha!         [Laughing.] 

Could  you  unbowel  earth  of  all  its  gold  — 
Cover  the  globe  with  vineyards,  and  sow  villas 
Thicker  than  sands  upon  the  roaring  beach, 
Amid  the  vine-sticks  —  were  mankind  unlimbed, 
The  whole  race  at  my  mercy  —  these  would  make 
No  atom  of  the  sum  I  hold  her  at ! 
'Sblood !  will  you  flout  me  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  95 

Sal.  Well,  well,  I  have  lost. 

Mar.    Ay,  lost  —  How  lost  ? 

Sal.  Forgive  the  liberty. 

I  made  a  sportive  wager  with  the  Count, 
That  I  could  purchase  anything  you  owned  : 
He  named  your  lady.  —  As  I  live,  Juranio, 
You  scarcely  used  me  fairly. 

Mar.  Ah  !  a  jest. 

Sal.    A  jest  that  lifts  a  trader's  character 
Above  my  former  thinking. 

'  Mar.  Pietro, 

If  I  should  put  this  jesting  home  again, 
They  could  not  murmur  ? 

Eogo.  No,  forsooth. 

Sal.  No,  no  ; 

'Tis  give  and  take. 

Mar.  Why,  signore  Salvatore, 

I  half  believed  you  meant  it.     Well  done,  faith  I 
How  did  you  keep  your  countenance  ?     'T  was  rare  J 
Costanza  must  know  this.     So,  merry  men, 
On,  to  the  castle  !     Count  Juranio, 
You  played  well  too.     You  must  feel  lively,  Count, 
With  such  a  flood  of  spirits. 

Sal.  Curse  the  brute  ! 

He  cuts  Juranio  with  a  two-edged  sword.         [Aside,] 

Mar.    Now  forward,  sirs  !     We  must  break  even 

yet. 

I  '11  plan  some  joke  ;  but,  when  't  is  working  hard, 
You  must  not  flinch,  if  it  be  something  rude. 
Forward,  mad  boys  !     We  are  all  jesters  now  : 
For  want  of  bells,  we  '11  shake  our  empty  heads  I 
[Exeunt,  on  one  side,  MARSIO,  JURANIO,  and  SALVATORE  ;  on  the 
other,  PIETRO  ROQO.] 


96  THE    BETROTHAL. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     The  House  of  MABSIO.     Enter  MARSIO. 

Harsio.  KNEEL  to  Costanza,  —  test  her  constancy  ! 
There 's  something  in  me  mutinies  at  that : 
But  she  shall  have  full  vengeance.     Kneel  to  her ! 
As  if  I  were  not.     Have  I  fallen  so  low 
That  this  fine  gentleman,  this  courtly  scum, 
Scorns  to  regard  me  ?     Traffic  for  her,  too  I 
As  if  I  kept  my  lady  on  my  shelves, 
To  wait  a  market.     On  my  life,  you  '11  find 
My  heart  boils  sometimes,  and  the  reek  is  death 
To  such  as  stir  it !     She  shall  be  revenged  ! 

[Draws forth  a  vial.] 

Now,  trembling  liquid,  who,  to  look  at  thee  — 
At  thy  pale,  sickly  aspect  —  at  thy  bulk, 
Cowering  to  nothing  in  thy  crystal  house  — 
Would  think  that  thou  couldst  give  so  brave  a  fall 
To  his  befeathered  Countship  ?     What,  canst  thou 
Stiffen  the  strong  steel  sinews  of  yon  man 
Who  wields  the  sword  so  featly  ?     As  I  live, 
I  doubt  thee,  mainly  !     Come,  one  sturdy  shake, 
To  rouse  thy  courage.     Ha  !  my  little  fellow, 
How  thou  dost  caper  !     Thou  hast  spirit,  yet. 
But  how  to  face  thee  with  thy  enemies  ? 
'T  would  fix  suspicion  on  me,  to  be  seen 
Hanging  around  their  cups.     Now,  could  I  bribe 
Some  fool   among  the   servants  —  but  whom,   but 
whom  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  97 

Curse  on  my  negligence  !     I  should  have  thought  — 
There's  Pulti  —  Pulti  — 

(Enter  PULTI.) 

Pulti.  At  your  elbow,  sir, 

Quoth  sin  unto  the  devil. 

Mar.  Merry  dog ! 

What  brought  you  back  ? 

Pul.  You  left  so  hastily, 

I  thought  I  might  be  wanted. 

Mar.  Faithful  heart ! 

Here  is  a  trifle  for  you.     By  my  soul, 
Your  love  deserves  it  richly,  Pulti.        [Gives  a  purse.] 

Pul.  Well, 

It  makes  him  so  much  poorer.  [Aside.] 

Mar.  Pulti  — 

Pul.  Signore. 

Mar.   You  love  your  master,  Pulti  ? 

Pul.  That  I  do  I 

I  'd  swim  through  burning  brimstone  for  my  master — 
Good  signore  Salvatore  !  [Aside.] 

Mar.  Bravely  Said  ! 

Now,  had  your  master  two  unresting  foes  — 
Dogging  his  footsteps  —  crossing  his  fair  plans  — 
Marring  his  hopes  —  turning  his  sweetest  cup, 
Ere  it  were  tasted,  to  cruel  bitterness  — 
Pursuing  him  with  most  vindictive  hate  — 
Ever  hot-footed  on  his  way  of  life, 
Beating  its  quiet  path  to  choking  dust ; 
Until  your  heart-sick  master  —  note  me,  Pulti  — 
Longed  for  the  grave  to  hide  him  from  their  wrath  ; 
What  would  you  do,  brave,  noble  fellow,  ha  ? 

Pul.    Cut  them  to  slivers  ! 

I     Mar.  Famous !    Kashly  bold, 

VOL.  n.  T 


98  THE    BETROTHAL. 

A  little  over-bold,  however.     No  ; 
You  'd  take  this  vial,  hidden  in  your  sleeve  — 
Thus,  Pulti,  thus  —  and  when  the  wine  went  round, 
You  'd  slyly  drop  five  drops  —  no  more  nor  less  — 
In  each  one's  cup  —  ha  !  Pulti  ?     Arid,  next  day, 
This  vast  machine  of  earth  would  tumble  on, 
As  if  these  dreadful  bullies  ne'er  had  been.  — 
Would  you  not,  Pulti  ? 

Pul.  Yes,  indeed.     I  '11  swear  — 

Tell  me  some  fearful  oath  to  swear  it  by. 

Mar.    Poh  !    poh  !     These  bugbear  oaths  are  chil 

dren's  toys, 

Mere  scare-crow  buckram,  to  the  big-souled  men 
Who  do  such  mighty  deeds.     But  you  would  say  — 
All  quietly,  in  silent,  breathless  words  — 
My  master  and  myself  are  in  one  boat, 
And  sink  or  swim  together.  —  Would  you  not  ? 

Pul.    I  would  be  cautious. 

Mar.  Doubtless,  my  wise  boy  ! 

Prudence  and  courage  make  a  powerful  yoke 
To  tug  along  the  world. 

Pul.  I  take  you,  sir  — 

As  rats  are  taken.  —  0  !  I  slander  rats.  [Aside.] 

Mar.    But  will  you  do  it  ? 

Pul.  By  this  hand,  I  will. 

Mar.    I  love  to  shake  an  honest  comrade's  hand. 
There  's  more  gold,  Pulti  —  millions,  millions,  boy  — 
And  you  shall  share  it.     You  shall  revel  out 
A  prince's  ransom  ;  live  a  gentleman, 
And  kick  work  to  the  devil.     Hey  !  my  trump  ! 

Pul.    Who  are  these  enemies  ? 

Mar.  You  long  to  see 

The  villains  drink  each  other's  healths  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  99 

Pul.  Ha  !  ha !      [Laughing."] 

0  !  bless  me,  you  are  droll ! 

Mar.  These  are  our  foes  — 

Yours,  Ptilti,  and  my  own  —  that  velvet  Count, 
That  clothes-pin,  modish  Count  Juranio, 
And  signore  Salvatore,  carte  and  tierce, 
The  ruffian,  with  his  beaver  on  one  side, 
Who  swaggers  through  the  world,  and  pushes  all 
That  do  not  please  him  in  the  kennel.    'Sblood  ! 
'T  were  no  great  harm  to  cut  such  fools  adrift ; 
;T  would  save  some  lace  a  sunning,  and  give  steel 
A  holy  rest. 

Pul.  Lord  !  how  you  draw  them,  sir ! 

Those  very  men  have  troubled  me  a  deal. 
Give  me  some  ratsbane. 

Mar.  Just  before  the  feast, 

I'll  slip  it  in  your  hand.     Be  faithful,  Pulti ; 
There's  no  such  gold  as  mine. 

Pul.  Have  faith  in  me. 

May  heaven  forsake  me,  when  I  leave  my  master  ! 

Mar.    Bring  out  the  horses.     I  must  back  again  : 
My  absence  will  be  noted. 

Pul.  Bless  you,  bless  you  !  — 

1  find  it  in  my  heart  to  bless  you,  sir, 

That  you  employed  no  one  but  me  for  this.       [Exit.] 
Mar.    The  knave 's  a  God-send  !     Who  had  ever 

thought 

That  little,  crooked  Marsio  could  wake 
So  warm  a  feeling  in  the  breast  of  man  ? 
Why,  what  a  cat's-paw  for  my  dangerous  nut 
The  ready  villain  is  !     I  never  deemed 
The  monstrous  wretch  was  crammed  so  full  of  sin  : 
Ce  poisons  at  a  hint.     Heaven  save  you,  Count ! 


100  THE    BETROTHAL. 

My  fiery  lover,  we  will  cool  your  blood  : 
Heaven  save  you,  too,  bold  signore  Salvatore  ! 
My  dashing  swordsman,  we  will  break  your  guard. 
Heaven  save  you  both  together,  gentlemen ! 
I  '11  bow  you  to  your  graves  to-morrow  morn  ! 

[Exit.] 

SCENE    H. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  the  MARQUIS.     Enter  SALVATORE 
and  PULTI,  meeting. 

PuUi.    Stand  back  !  I  'm  Marsio's  chief  poisoner  ! 

[Sings.] 

Quoth  the  devil,  I  '11  mix 
Both  the  Acheron  and  Styx, 
To  brew  them  a  deadly  potation  — 

Lord  !  I  'm  too  gay  to  sing. 

Salvatore.  Why,  Pulti,  Pulti ! 

Pul.   Unearthed,  at  last  !     The   fox  has  broken 

ground, 
And  I  am  holding  to  his  brush  —  ho  !  ho  ! 

\_Laughing. ,] 
Saint  Dunstan's  tongs  were  mercy  to  this  hand. 

0  !  but  I  have  him  1 

Sal.  Pulti,  are  you  crazed  ? 

Pul.    Half  mad  with  joy.     Here  is  his   precious 
plot  — 

Sal.   Whose  plot? 

Pul.  Why,  Marsio's.    What  other  fiend 

Could  shape  one  like  it  ?     Had  you  seen  me,  sir, 
Just  playing  with  him,  like  a  well-hooked  fish  ; 

1  gave  him  all  my  line. 

Sal.  Now  for  the  plot. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  101 

Pul.    Then  tremble  !    Signore  Marsio  —  Ho  !   ho  ! 

[Laughing.] 

The  devil  catch  me  !     I  must  laugh  it  out. 
"Well,  signore  Marsio  has  hired  me,  me — 
Me,  me  —  his  Pulti  —  do  you  understand  ?  — 
To  poison  you  and  Count  Juranio. 

Sal.    Ha  !  —  Where,  and  how  ? 

Pul.  0  !  at  the  feast  to-night. 

Sal.    In  meat  or  wine  ? 

Pul.  ,  In  wine.     The  merry  ape 

Would  see  you  two  pledging  each  other's  healths  ; 
Just  for  the  joke's  sake.     Do  you  take  it  ? 

Sal.  Yes : 

How  the  sky  brightens  after  Marsio's  thunder ! 
Bless  his  invention  !     I  will  match  his  coin. 
Some  paper,  quickly. 

Pul.  Here,  sir.      [Showing  paper,  on  a  table.] 

Sal.  Let  me  think. 

Now,  school  of  Padua,  help  thy  dullest  scholar 
To  mix  a  draught  for  Marsio.     'Ods  blood ! 
I  have  not  practised  physic  for  so  long, 
That  I  scarce  recollect  the  crooked  things 
Which  stand  for  drachms  and  scruples. 

Pul.  Never  care 

For  scruples,  only  call  the  drachms  to  mind : 
I  long  to  dose  him. 

Sal.  Ah  !  I  have  it  now  : 

It  all  comes  back  together.    ( Writes.)    Here  we  are  ; 
Signed,  Doctor  Salvatore.     Pulti,  run  — 
Ask  for  the  next  apothecary  —  run  ! 
Our  time  is  short.  [Gives  a  paper.] 

Pul.  Here  is  a  full  receipt 

For  all  your  poundings,  master  Marsio  ! 


102  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Sal.   You  '11  throw  the  drug  in  Marsio's  cup.    Fly, 

fly! 

But  where  's  his  poison  ?     You  must  get  me  that. 
Pul.    As  soon  as  Marsio  puts  it  in  my  hands. 
Sal.    Enough  —  away  !  [Exit  PCLTI,  singing.} 

Quoth  the  man  to  the  devil, 
Thou  spirit  of  evil, 

Foul  poison  is  brewed  from  fair  peaches  ; 
A  curse  on  your  vowings  1 
Your  scrapings  and  bowings, 

Like  poison  may  lurk  in  fair  speeches. 

Sal.  Bright  Cupid  and  dark  Death 

Join  hands,  in  an  unnatural  fellowship, 
Like  morn  and  midnight  at  the  northern  pole  ; 
But  I  can  see  a  pathway,  green  with  hope, 
Beneath  the  twilight. 

(Enter  the  MARQUIS  DI  TIBURZZI.) 

Marquis.  Can  you  spare  a  moment  ? 

Sal.    Your  question  wrongs  me :  I  would  gladly 

spend 
A  lifetime  in  your  service. 

Marq.  I  believe  you  : 

Although  men's  tongues  too  oft  outnoise  their  deeds, 
And  gain  in  clamor  what  they  lose  in  aim. 
When  you  approached  me  for  my  niece's  hand, 
I  saw  in  you  such  manly  qualities 
As  led  me  to  receive  you,  not  alone 
As  her  best  suitor,  but  as  my  best  friend. 
You  are  a  man  of  action,  I  am  not ; 
You  are  a  man  of  hopeful  vigor ;  cares 


THE    BETROTHAL.  103: 

Soon  dried  my  leaves  of  early  promise  up, 
And  age  puts  forth  no  more.     Sir,  I  am  old, 
Feeble,  and  hopeless  ;  I  would  have  a  friend. 

Sal.    Confide  in  me. 

Marq.  I  need  your  confidence  — 

Not  for  myself ;  these  gray  hairs  warn  me  oft 
That  I  shall  drop  into  my  barren  grave 
Ere  many  seasons  ;  but  my  daughter  lives, 
To  blossom  o'er  my  ruins,  or  to  wither. 
God  only  knows. 

Sal.  To  blossom,  bear,  and  yield, 

In  holy  sunshine ! 

Marq.  And  you  know  her  fate, — 

Her  vile  betrothal  to  this  Marsio  ? 

Sal.    Did  you  not  make  it  ? 

Marq.  No  !  they  juggled-  me. 

Her  —  Well,  well,  signore,  I  rd  not  think  of  that. 
Now,  I  would  break  the  bond  ;  but  Marsio 
Holds  my  ancestral  debts,  and  threatens  me 
With  whips  and  galleys.     I  could  bear  them  all, 
If  that  would  free  Costanza. 

Sal.  Let  me  add 

Another  misery,  then  break  the  whole. 
Your  daughter  loves  Juranio. 

Marq.  Gracious  heaven ! 

Woe  piles  on  woe  !     Had  I  a  choice  of  men, 
I  would  have  picked  him  for  her. 

Sal.  Rightly  too, 

You  would  have  picked  the  flower.     Your  simple 

word, 

To  follow,  without  flaw,  what  I  design, 
Shall  free  Costanza,  wed  her  to  the  Count, 
And  ransom  you. 


104  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.  You  mock  me. 

Sal.  Mock  you  I 

No,  no  ;  I  '11  show  you  what  I  rest  upon. 

Marq.    You  seem  a  sober  man. 

Sal.  To  Marsio 

I  am  fate's  deputy.     Crime  gives  a  hold 
Which  rivets  the  transgressor  to  an  end, 
So  helpless,  that  an  infant's  careless  hand 
May  pull  a  giant  to  his  doom. 

Marq.  Crime ! 

Sal.  Crime. 

Marq.    Dear  heaven,  might  this  be  true  !    I  know 

him  cruel  — 

Ay,  guilty  —  but  not  within  the  scope  of  law. 
.  Sal.   Have  I  no  credit  ? 

Marq.  Yes  ;  I  yield  you  all  — 

My  faith,  my  honor.     Guide  me  as  you  list ; 
You  cannot  worst  my  chance. 

Sal.  Then  hear  my  tale  — 

More  fitted  to  draw  blood  than  tears,  my  lord : 
That  scheming  crawler,  Marsio,  has  hired 
A  man,  who  loves  Juranio  and  myself, 
To  poison  us. 

Marq.  0,  horror !     Has  the  wretch 

Such  depths  in  his  dark  soul  ? 

Sal.  It  so  appears. 

Marq.    I  '11  hurl  him  from  my  windows  !     Shall  a 

roof 

That  hung  so  long  'twixt  heaven  and  noble  men, 
Pence  off  God's  justice  ? 

Sal.  Softly,  sir,  I  pray  ! 

He  must  attempt  the  poisoning,  or  we  lose 
Our  grasp  upon  him. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  105 

Marq.  True.     What  cause  can  he 

Set  up  to  satisfy  him  with  his  crime  ? 

Sal.    Against  Juranio,  't  is  jealousy. 

Marq.    I  see.     Your  kinsman  was  the  cavalier 
Who  met  Costanza  in  the  Park. 

Sal.  No  other : 

And  plead  his  suit  most  bravely,  but  in  vain  : 
She  made  her  love  an  offering  for  your  life. 

Marq.    Poor  girl  ! 

Sal.  *  Now,  hear  my  mandates. 

Marq.  But  your  plan  — 

What  is  your  plan  ? 

Sal.  It  must  unfold  itself. 

I  have  a  shift  for  Marsio's  every  turn : 
One  lost,  another  wins. 

Marq.  I  am  content. 

'T  is  better  with  you  ;  I  have  ever  marred 
Whate'er  I  touched.     Lay  your  commands  upon  me. 

Sal.   Provide  a  priest,  and  have  such  papers  drawn, 
As  the  law  orders,  to  unite  in  wedlock 
Costanza  and  Juranio.     At  the  feast, 
See  you  produce  them  when  I  call  for  them. 

Marq.    It  shall  be  done.     0,  signore  Salvatore, 
See  you  be  well  prepared  upon  your  part. 
I  count  my  life  as  nothing ;  but  my  daughter, 
My  only  daughter  —  Look  you  do  not  slip  : 
You  might  enrage,  not  foil,  his  villany  ; 
And  draw  a  double  ruin  on  her  head. 

Sal.    Fear  not ;  even  now  I  hold  such  evidence 
As  makes  the  life  of  signore  Marsio 
Not  worth  a  felon's  claim.     How  Pulti  tarries  ! 

You  will  pardon  me,  if  I  take  leave,  my  lord  ? 


106  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.    Go,  signore,  go.     Ask  me  to  pardon  you  ! 
God  shield  you,  sir !     You  shall  have  all  the  prayers 
My  age  may  mutter,  'twixt  the  coming  night 
And  that  far  darker  night,  towards  which  my  steps, 
By  slow  degrees,  are  narrowing  to  their  end. 

Sal.    Cheer,    cheer,    my  lord !     The   shadows   fly 

from  us ; 

Day  treads  upon  the  dusky  heels  of  night ! 
Even  now  my  herald  hopes  fly  far  above, 
Shaking  the  morning  from  their  shining  wings  ! 
Ho  !  laugh,  laugh,  and  be  merry. 

Marq.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     [Laughing."] 

Your  hearty  courage  is  infectious,  sir  ! 

[Exeunt  severally.'} 


SCENE  m. 

Another  Room  in  the  Castle.     Enter  COSTANZA  and  FILIPPIA. 
Filippia. 


Love-lorn  Lucy 

On  a  bank  sat  sighing, 
Ah,  well  a  day  I  ah,  well  a  day  ! 
My  fickle  love  has  flown  away, 

And  left  me  here  a-dying, 

False,  false  pledges  ! 

Why  did  I  receive  them  ? 
Vows  are  but  words,  words  are  but  air, 
And  air  can  blow  both  foul  and  fair  : 

Why  did  I  believe  them  ? 


THE    BETROTHAL.  107 

Ah  !  light-hearted, 
Would  thy  scorn  might  slay  me  ! 

0  !  would  thy  wrongs  might  end  my  pain  ! 

Or  would  that  thou  rnightst  come  again, 
And  again  betray  me  ! 

There  's  a  light  song  to  cheer  you. 

Costanza.  Woful  cheer  ! 

Fil.    Why,  what 's  the  matter,  cousin  ?    How  you 

droop ! 

Here  's  a  strange  countenance  for  a  festival ! 
Take  my  advice  ;  follow  your  honest  heart ; 
For  those  who  oftenest  trust  their  knavish  heads 
Are  oftenest  led  by  a  fool's  bauble.     Run, 
Run  for  dear  life  !     Away,  girl,  Count  and  all  I 
I  '11  cover  your  retreat. 

Cos.  This  mockery 

Is  cruel  and  useless.     How  my  doom  draws  on  I 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  viewless  hours 
Have  changed  themselves  to  some  substantial  thing, 
And  I  can  hear  them  roaring  by  my  ears, 
Like  a  vast  tide,  —  alas  !  alas  !  how  swiftly ! 

Fil.    Did  she  but  know  how  gayly  nimble  Time 
Is  floating  on  Love's  shallop,  she  would  kiss 
The  slandered  gray-beard.     I  will  tell  her.     No  ; 
'T  is  Salvatore's  secret.     [Aside.] 

Cos.  Cousin,  cousin, 

I  cannot  marry  Marsio  !     Each  step 
That  brings  me  nearer  to  him  shows  the  man 
More  hideous  ;  and,  alas  !  —  I  tell  you  all  — 
Contrast  makes  Count  Juranio  appear 
Almost  a  god  to  him. 

Fil.  Why,  so  he  is  ; 


108  THE    BETROTHAL. 

And  so  is  any  other  honest  man. 
Marsio  's  no  man  ;  Marsio  's  an  outcast  imp, 
Banished  among  us  for  such  evil  deeds 
As  set  the  fiends  to  staring ! 

Cos.  Misery ! 

Have  you  no  word  of  comfort  ?     I  implore 
Your  kindlier  feelings,  and  you  meet  my  grief 
With  scoffs  and  jeers.     Why  do  you  not  sustain 
My  tottering  firmness  ?     Has  my  lot  become 
Too  low,  too  mean,  for  pity  ?     Must  I  stand 
By  my  own  power  ?     So  be  it,  then  ;  I  '11  stand, 
Though  my  heart  break  within  me ! 

Fil.  I  must  tell  her. 

{Enter  SAIVATORE.     FILIPPIA  and  SALVATORE  talk  apart.) 

Salvatore.   Have  you  kept  counsel  ? 

Fil.  By  the  hardest,  though. 

Don't  glare  at  me.     I  have  obeyed  you,  tyrant. 
Lord !  if  you  frown  so  at  the  maid,  the  wife 
Must  feed  her  love  on  cudgels  ! 

Sal.  Peace,  peace,  peace  I 

Your  love  shall  have  sound  diet.     It  was  well  — 
Look  you,  Filippia  —  it  was  well  I  came. 

Fil.    'T  is  always  well  when  Salvatore  comes. 

Sal.    Bah  !  you  mad  witch  !     I  love  you  fearfully. 

Fil.  And  so  you  show  it.  I  can  never  tell, 
When  you  come  nigh  me,  whether  you  intend 
To  cut  my  throat  or  kiss  me. 

Sal.  Instance  this.         [Kisses  her.] 

Fil.    I  know  not  yet. 

Sal.  Till  you  are  satisfied, 

I  '11  smother  you  in  kisses.         [Kisses  her.] 


THE    BETROTHAL.  109 

Fil.  Ruffian,  stop  ! 

Look  at  my  ruffle.     0  !  had  you  rude  men 
To  do  our  starching !     Woo  me  by  main  strength  ! 

Sal.    Out  on  your  arts  !     Your  wicked  witchery 
Makes  me  forget  myself — your  cousin  too. 

Fil.    She  did  not  note  you. 

Sal.  I  must  speak  with  her. 

[Advances  to  COSTANZA.] 

Lady  Costanza,  dare  you  trust  your  honor 
In  my  poor  hands  ? 

Cos.  Had  I  a  fear  of  it, 

There  I  should  place  it. 

Fil.  Justly  spoken,  cousin  ! 

Make  him  your  fate.     See  what  I  gain  by  it,  — 
A  crumpled  ruffle,  and  a  bleeding  lip. 

Sal.    Time  presses  ;  I  must  through  at  once. 

[Aside.  ] 

Fa.  Well,  well ! 

Here  's  better  than  yourself  to  whisper  to. 

Sal.    Lady  Costanza,  without  argument, 
Give  me  your  word  to  do  as  I  direct, 
And  I  engage  to  scatter  your  worst  fears, 
And  crown  your  brightest  hopes  with  full  success. 
I  hold  your  future  in  my  happy  hands  : 
My  power  is  ample,  and  my  purpose  just. 
For  —  mark  this,  lady  —  should  I  trench  upon 
Your  nicest  honor,  by  the  act,  I  free  you 
From  any  compact. 

Cos.  Signore  Salvatore, 

You  mean  this  kindly,  and  I  take  it  so, 
But  know  it  baseless. 

Sal.  Only  promise. 

Fil  Do  I 


110  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Cos.    7T  is  said  that  drowning  beggars  sometimes 

vow 

Rich  churches  to  the  saint  who  '11  spare  their  lives  ; 
So  I  —  passing  my  word  upon  your  terms  — 
Promise,  if  you  fulfil  your  marvellous  pledge, 
That  which  defies  our  voluntary  power  — 
My  dearest  love. 

Fit.  Poh  !  poh  !    Costanza,  "  love  !  " 

0  !  what  a  doleful  effort  to  be  gay  ! 

Pray,  use  some  cooler  term  —  the  man  is  mine  — 
Say  friendship,  or  affection,  or  the  like  : 

1  dread  your  rivalry. 

Sal.  Filippia  lays 

Our  serious  feelings,  as  if  they  were  devils. 

Fil.   He  takes  her  part !     Now  I  am  jealous,  sir. 
Come,  lead  her  off  from  this  sad  theme. 

[Apart  to  SALVATORE.] 

Sal.  Alas ! 

Here  comes  the  theme  itself. 

(Enter  MABSIO  and  JURANIO.) 

Marsio.  Pray,  look  you,  ladies  : 

Here  is  he  that  once  was  Count  Juranio  ; 
But,  now,  how  fallen,  how  spent  and  spiritless ! 
I  tried  an  hour  to  work  a  smile  from  him, 
But  lost  my  labor. 

Ml.  What 'a  the  trouble,  Count? 

Sal.   Are  you  a  man  ?     [Apart  to  JUHANIO.] 

Juranio.  There  is  the  misery, 

That  I  am  man  ;  would  I  were  more  or  less  !   [jiside.] 

Mar.   I  even  took  him  to  your  bower,  Costanza ; 
Showed  what  a  lurking-place  for  love  it  is  ; 


THE    BETROTHAL.  Ill 

Pointed  your  favorite   flowers ;    glanced  here  and 

there, 

Omitting  nothing :  but  he  never  smiled. 
Then  I  went  through  my  plans  of  wedded  bliss  ; 
Told  him  how  soon  my  marriage-day  would  come  ; 
Invited  him  to  see  it.  —  On  my  faith, 
Methiuks  I  turned  a  prophet,  for  his  sake  — 
Did  I  not,  Count  ?  —  and  in  a  vision  saw 
My  stretching  line  of  noble  progeny. 
I  named  them  too  —  ha !    ha !     I  named  them  for 

him  !  [Laughing.] 

Called  one  Juranio.     Striving  thus  to  cheer 
His  melancholy  with  my  happiness  : 
But  yet  he  never  smiled.     When  he  would  speak, 
'T  was  only  "  Marsio,  0  !  were  I  you  !  " 
And  then  he  'd  blush,  and  catch  his  sentence  up 
With  —  "  I  'd  do  so  and  so  "  —  some  petty  thing, 
Beneath  my  memory.     Even  now  he  talked, 
So  sweetly  talked,  of  "  Death,  dear,  pleasant  death! 
What  a  kind  thing  it  is  that  weary  men, 
After  the  jading  day  of  eager  life, 
Can  lie  them  gently  in  their  earthy  beds, 
And  sleep  their  cares  away  !  "     So  well  he  spoke, 
That,  for  his  eloquence,  I  nearly  killed  him, 
Out  of  sheer  pity. 

Sal.  What  a  man  is  this  ! 

But  justice'  arm  is  up.         [Aside.] 

(FitippiA,  JURANIO,  and  SALVATORE,  talk  apart.) 

Mar.    (Apart  to  COSTANZA.)    They  tell  me,  lady, 
You  were  insulted  in  the  Park,  to-day, 
By  some  presuming  dunce's  love.  —  Nay,  nay  ; 


112  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Come  here.     They  say  you  used  him  bravely,  too, 
As  I  would  wish  you. 

Cos.  Ha !  he  knows  it  all : 

I  see  such  meaning  in  his  face.     I  fear —        [Aside.] 
A  word,  sir,  with  Juranio. 

Mar.  With  whom  ? 

Cos.    With  Count  Juranio. 

Mar.  Not  a  whisper.     Lady, 

We  mostly  add  men's  titles  to  their  names. 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Servant.    My  lord  awaits  you,  gentlemen. 

Mar.  On,  on ! 

The  feast  invites  us.     Count  Juranio, 
We  '11  drown  your  gloomy  humors  in  our  wine. 
Come,  gentlemen.     To-night  is  lovers'  eve  — 
Conduct  your  lady,  signore  Salvatore  ; 
I  too  will  use  the  time's  sweet  privilege  : 
Think  me  not  rude,  Count.     By  your  leave,  Costanza. 

[Exit  with  COSTANZA.] 

Sal.   You  promise  me  ? 

Ju.  Ay  ;  use  me  as  you  will : 

I  lack  employment  for  myself. 

Sal.  Go  on. 

Fil.    Without  you,  signore  ? 

Sal.  Yes.  —  Make  some  excuse. 

0  !  where  is  Pulti  ?     Fate  hangs  on  his  steps  ! 
[Exeunt  on  one  side,  FILIPPIA  and  JURANIO  ;  on  the  other,  SAL 
VATORE.] 


THE    BETROTHAL.  113 

SCENE    IV. 

An  Ante-Room  in  the  Castle.     Enter  PULTI. 
Pulti.     (Sings.) 

With  each  grain  of  Heaven's  goodness, 
I  will  mix  one  of  woodness, 

And  ten  solid  grains  of  pure  evil ; 
Do  whatever  you  can, 
You  must  bolt  all,  my  man, 

Or  starve,  quoth  to  Adam  the  devil. 

(Enter  SALVATORE.) 

Salvatore.   Your  fiendish  ditty  is  a  guide,  at  least. 
Well  met !     Your  news  ? 

Pul.  I  barely  saved  my  time. 

The  guests  are  down,  and  I  am  sent  to  seek  you. 

Sal.    Is  the  cup  drugged  ? 

Pul.  I  mixed  the  powders  in, 

And  poured  the  wine  around,  ere  I  came  off. 

Sal.  Two  powders  ? 

Pul.  Two. 

Sal.  Victoria  I     The  one 

ihall  rack  him  shrewdly,  with  a  piercing  colic, 
Until  the  opiate  act ;  when  he  will  fall, 
Upon  a  sudden,  in  a  torpid  stupor, 
Which  will  so  balance  between  life  and  death, 
That  but  a  feather's  weight  might  turn  the  beam, 
And  land  him  in  eternity. 

Pul.  It  might  ? 

VOL.  n.  8 


114  THE    BETROTHAL. 

I  am  no  feather,  and,  by  all  I  love, 
I  '11  leap  into  the  balance  bodily. 

Sal.    No,  Pulti ;  I  've  not  closed  with  Marsio. 
To-morrow  I  must  buy  the  Marquis'  debts, 
On  my  own  terms  ;  death  would  upset  my  bargain. 

Pul.    Here  's  Marsio's  poison.  [Gives  the  vial.] 

Sal.  Precious,  precious  vial  1 

You  hold  the  happiness  of  two  dear  hearts 
Pent  in  your  narrow  compass  ! 

Pul.  Is  that  all  ? 

Methinks  it  comes  to  little,  when  't  is  brought 
Down  to  a  liquid  form.     Had  I  believed 
A  lover's  prophecies  upon  this  point, 
I  'd  have  been  fool  enough  to  build  an  ark, 
Against  a  second  deluge.     What  a  close 
To  all  your  rhapsodies  !     Here  's  a  scant  bath 
For  a  foul  fly ! 

Sal.  Enough  to  drown  your  wit. 

Pul.    If  that's  the  substance  of  love's  happiness, 
Pray  trust  it  to  my  handling.     I  will  bear  it, 
As  friars  do  rare  relics,  through  the  land, 
To  strengthen  bachelors  in  their  religion. 

Sal.    Prodigious  atheist  I 

Pul.  Holy  maniac  ! 

Now,  which  is  better,  a  sound  infidel, 
Or  a  cracked  devotee  ?     Let  Heaven  decide. 

Sal.    Back  to  your  master,  knave  !  his  fellowship 
Sorts  with  your  feelings. 

Pul.  'T  is  a  doleful  thing, 

That  our  gay  world  can  yield  a  healthy  man 
No  company  but  lunatics  or  rogues  : 
The  wise  are  villains,  and  the  honest  fools. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  115 

Lord  !  what  a  raking  mid  the' weeds  there  is, 
To  find  one  modest  flower  in  all  the  crop  ! 

Sal.    I  prophecy  a  cardinal's  cap  for  you, 
If  you  will  preach  thus  in  the  market-place. 
I  must  be  off.     0,  Pulti,  Pulti,  Pulti, 
If  ever  man  loved  man,  I  dote  on  you  !  [Exeunt.] 


SCENE  V. 

The  Great  Hall  of  the  Castle.  A  feast  spread.  At  which  are 
seated  the  MAKQUIS  and  MARCHIONESS  DI  TIBURZZI,  MARSIO, 
COSTANZA,  FILIPPIA,  JuRANio,  and  other  Guests.  Servants  in 
waiting.  Enter  PULTI,  and  stands  behind  MARSIO.  Then  enter 
SALVATORE,  and  seats  himself. 

Marquis.    We  wait  you,  signore. 

Salvatore.  Pardon  my  delay : 

My  need  was  urgent. 

Marsio.  I  have  kept  the  wine. 

Our  cups,  o'erbrimming  with  the  sunny  juice, 
Stand  to  attend  you. 

Sal.  'T  was  a  needless  pause. 

I  never  taste  the  vintage.     By  your  leave, 
I  '11  use  the  grape,  as  nature  gives  it  to  us, 
Thus,  in  the  ripened  fruit.     For  I  hold  wine 
To  be  a  most  ingenious  fraud  of  Satan's  ; 
Who  is  so  ready  to  change  Heaven's  best  gifts 
Into  some  tempting  form  of  sin.     'T  is  true 
A  healthy  apple  cozened  mother  Eve  ; 
But  I  have  wondered  at  that  barefaced  trick 
Upon  the  simple  woman.     Why  did  not 
The  guileful  devil  change  it  into  cider, 


116  THE    BETROTHAL. 

And  gull  her  handsomely  ?     My  kinsman,  too, 
Is  of  my  way  of  thinking. 

Juranio.  I !  what,  I ! 

"Why,  Salvatore,  I  would  quaff  a  sea 
Of  the  rich  earthly  Lethe,  were  our  night 
Stretched  to  a  polar  length. 

Mar.  You  hear  him,  sir : 

The  Count  is  wild  for  wassail.     You  will  not 
Refuse  my  lady's  health  ?     'Sblood  1  should  this  dog 
Lap  water  only  ?     Pulti,  is  it  done  ?     [Apart  to  PULTI.] 

Putti.    You  '11  find  it  so.  —  Ho  !  ho  !  —  [Laughing.] 

Mar.  Hist !  be  discreet.     [Apart  to  PULTI.] 

Sal.    I  will  not  balk  you,  to  be  curious. 
A  toast,  a  toast  1 

Mar.  Eise,  sirs.     Our  union!       [They  drink.] 

Sal.    Simple  and  pregnant.     Cleopatra's  pearl 
Suffers  discredit  by  your  tasteful  pledge. 
I  drank  it,  with  good  relish,  to  the  dregs  ; 
Ay,  and  forgot  my  enmity  to  wine, 
In  seeing  with  what  gust  you  boused  it  down. 

Mar.    You  flatter  me.     Your  kinsman  holds  his 

peace  : 
I  hope  I  touched  him. 

Sal.  Him  !     Why,  look  you,  now  ; 

His  cup  is  dry,  —  the  very  moisture  gone  : 
Heavens  !  what  a  fiery  thirst  I 

Gostanza.  Your  lover's  spirits 

Mount  to  a  wondrous  height.     It  makes  one  sad 
To  see  a  man  so  merry. 

Filippia.  Wait  a  while, 

And  his  high  spirits  shall  fly  off  with  you. 

Cos.    You  have  a  hopeful  fancy  :  it  must  be 
A  sorry  thing  to  mark  its  failures. 


THE    BETROTHAL. 

Fil.  No ; 

I  have  fresh  hopes  to  help  the  lame  ones  on. 
They  are  like  flowers  that,  dying,  run  to  seed, 
And  multiply  the  race.  —  See,  Marsio  ! 

March.    What  is  the  matter,  signore  ? 

Mar.  Nothing,  nothing : 

A  passing  pain. 

Sal.  You  drink  too  eagerly. 

A  sudden  rush  of  wine  into  the  frame 
Shakes  it  with  spasms  sometimes. 

Mar.  Are  you  a  leech  ? 

Physic  yourself —  'Sblood  ! 

March.  Signore  !  — 

Mar.  I  am  ill.      [They  all  rise.] 

Sal.    Pray  will  you  test  my  leechcraft  ? 

Mar.  I  feel  faint. 

Nay  ;  I  am  stronger  now.     Come  hither,  Pulti. 
What  does  this  mean  ? 

Pul.  I  cannot  tell. 

Mar.  Those  men, 

Those  devilish  villains  —  Pulti,  do  you  see  them  ?  — 
Look  well  and  merry.     Ere  this  time,  the  snakes 
Should  have  crawled  homeward,  with  their  venom  in. 
The  poison  but  fulfils  what  nature  skipt : 
While  I  —  Augh  !  Pulti  —  [Apart  to  PULTI.] 

Pul.  Let  me  see.      (Runs  to  the  table.) 

0,  Lord ! 

0  !  signore  Marsio  is  poisoned  !     0  ! 
The  cups  are  changed.     You  drank  the  — 

Mar.  Traitor,  hold ! 

Or  I  will  cut  you  to  the  belt ! 

March.  Good  heaven  ! 

Poisoned  ? 


118  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Marq.    Is  this  your  plot  ?     You  — 

Sal.  Wait  the  issue.      \_Apari  to  the  MAKQUIS.] 

March.    Run,  run  —  a  doctor  ! 

Mar.  Forty  thousand  doctors 

Were  forty  thousand  short. 

Cos.  How  feel  you,  signore  ? 

Mar.   Out !  smooth  drab  !  —  0  !  —  0  ! 

Sal.  You  have  sprung  the  trap, 

But  caught  yourself  for  game. 

Mar.  Who  did  this  thing  ? 

Sal    I. 

Mar.     Hear !  he  confesses  it.     Seize  on  them  — 
Juranio  and  that  man  —  my  murderers  ! 

March.    Ay  ;  seize  them,  seize  them  ! 

[  The  Guests  draw.  ] 

Sal.  Patience,  gentlemen, 

I  make  you  no  resistance.     On  my  honor, 
I  will  not  try  to  fly. 

Mar.  A  poisoner's  honor  ! 

Mercy,  what  a  pang  !    'Sdeath  1  an  officer  — 
Send  for  an  officer !     Quick,  quick  —  break  up  — 
I  do  denounce  them  both  —  we  '11  have  no  feast ! 

Sal.    Ay,  but  we  will ;  a  marriage,  too. 

Mar.  How,  how  ? 

Sal.    We  '11  use  Juranio,  when  you  are  gone. 

Mar.    Ah,  dog  I  may  your  tongue  rot ! 

Sal.  Before  you,  signore  ? 

Mar.    Silence  the  miscreant!     Are  you  men,  to 

see  — 
0,  heaven  !  these  pains  ! 

Ju.  What  means  this,  Salvatore  ? 

Sal.    Peace,  my  dear  boy  ;  the  time  is  mine. 

Mar.  You  think  — 


THE    BETROTHAL,  119 

You  two  —  your  countship  and  that  pliant  lady  — 

You  think,  I  say,  when  the  grave  swallows  me, 

To  wed  ?  —  Ha  !  do  ye  ?    If  the  dead  can  rise  — 

And  I  will  up  !     I  '11  haunt  you  till  ye  pray 

To  sleep  beside  me.     I  will  crawl  between 

Your  eager  kisses  with  my  wormy  lips  ; 

I  '11  eat  with  you  ;  I  '11  drink  —  I  '11  drink  again  — 

0,  heaven  !  some  water,  water !     I  consume  — 

Till  all  my  flesh  has  rotted  from  me.     Gods  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !    I  '11  make  a  merry  guest !     You  wretch  — 

Now  I  feel  easier  —  you  Salvatorc, 

I  '11  fight  with  you,  through  all  your  odious  days, 

Until  I  drive  you  in  your  grave.     0  !  curse  you  ! 

Do  I  look  better  ?     I  may  yet  be  well. 

010!  these  searching  cramps  !    Where  do  you  go  ? 

Come  back,  I  say  !     I  will  not  die  alone  ! 

I  do  denounce  them  —  Pulti,  Pulti  too. 

Seize  them  —  seize  all !     Have  pity  on  me,  Heaven  I 

I  will —  I  will !  —  The  room  is  full  of  smoke. 

Cut  down  the  poisoners !     I  am  not  dead  yet  ! 

[Draws,  rushes  at  JUBANIO,  and  falls."] 

0  !  mercy,  heaven  !    0  !  curse  you  —  0  !        [Faints.] 
Sal.  Well  done ! 

He  shows  his  death-bed  in  perspective. 

March.  Base, 

Base  man,  to  glory  in  your  victim's  death  ! 
Sirs,  apprehend  him.  [The  Guests  advance.] 

Sal.  Gently,  gentlemen  — 

1  use  my  cutlery  with  the  best  of  you  — 
Marsio  's  not  dead.     A  simple  opiate 
Caused  all  this  terror. 

Ml  'T  is  ill  news,  but  true. 

Find  out  some  den  to  keep  this  monster  in. 

[Servants  carry  o^ 


120  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Sal.   Wake  from  your  apathy !      You  stand  like 
marble. 

Cos.    I  never  dreamed  such  horrors. 

Ju.  What,  not  dead  ? 

March.    0  !  joy,  joy,  joy ! 

Sal.  Call  in  your  priest  and  notary. 

Are  they  in  waiting  ? 

Marq.  As  I  promised  you. 

But  I  can  scarcely  see  my  way  through  this. 

(Enter  a  Priest  and  a  Notary.) 

Sal.    I  am  your  pilot :  trust  me. 

Marq.  As  you  will. 

Sal.    Now  sign  this  paper,  lady  ;  and  you,  Count. 
'Tis  hasty,  not  dishonorable.     Keep  faith. 

Cos.    How,  sir ! 

Ju.  But,  Salvatore,  Marsio  lives. 

Sal.    He  lives  a  felon  !     And  I  roundly  swear, 
If  you  two  people  are  not  wed  to-night, 
I  '11  have  him  hung  upon  a  moving  gallows, 
And  wheel  him  after  you  around  the  world. 
I  '11  have  no  trifling. 

March.  Marsio  a  felon  ! 

Sal.  He  sought  to  poison  Count  Juranio, 
And  honored  me  by  joining  me  with  him. 
Where  are  you,  Pulti  ? 

PuUi.  Here,  sir.     Room,  room,  room, 

For  Marsio's  prime  minister  of  drugs  ! 
This  vial,  and  my  oath,  might  go  some  lengths 
To  speed  his  journey  to  a  hotter  world. 
Advance  my  relique  !  [SALVATORE  shows  the  vial.] 

March.  0  !  the  horrid  viper  I 

What  an  escape  poor,  dear  Costauza  made  ! 


THE    BETROTHAL.  121 

Sal.    You  still  hang  back  ? 

Cos.  My  father  still  is  bound. 

Sal.    He  is  well  cared  for.     Ere  another  day, 
I  pledge  myself  to  buy  your  father's  debts 
At  my  own  price.     'Sdeath  !  do  you  falter  now  ? 
My  lord,  your  promise. 

Marq.  I  command  you,  daughter : 

Obey  my  friend. 

March.  Is  Count  Juranio  rich  ? 

^[Jlpart  to  the  MARQUIS.] 

Marq.    Pshaw  !  madam. 

Cos.  I  obey  —  perhaps  too  kindly  ; 

But  the  mere  thought  of  your  security 
Sends  my  heart  upward,  like  a  loosened  bird, 
Dizzy  with  hope,  and  strength,  and  ecstasy  ; 
For  I  am  free  again  !      (Turns  to  SALVATORE.)     To  you  I 

owe 

More  than  a  common  show  of  gratitude  ; 
But,  now,  forgive  me  ;  my  o'erflowing  thoughts 
Would  drown  the  happy  prospect  of  my  speech, 
By  sheer  abundance  of  their  offerings. 
To  you,  Juranio  — 

Ju.  Nay,  dear  Costanza, 

Let  my  heart  whisper  what  your  words  might  be. 

Sal.    Hide  all  your  roses  in  your  lover's  breast. 
Go  talk  it  over,  go  —  we  '11  never  look  — 
Then  come  to  us,  and  notary  and  priest 
Shall  knit  you  up. 

Ju.  Dear  kinsman  — 

Sal.  Silence,  sir  1 

This  place  is  nauseous  with  stale  sentiment. 
Mind  your  affairs  ;  I  've  business  of  my  own. 
Fair  lady,  have  I  won  ? 


122  THE    BETROTHAL. 

Fil.  Yes,  Salvatore.      [  Giving  her  hand.} 

Would  it  were  worthier ! 

Sal.  Not  for  my  sake,  love  : 

You  cannot  add  a  morsel  to  content. 

Marq.  Peace  crown  you  all !    I  have  such  friends, 

at  last, 

As  money  could  not  buy  —  the  gifts  of  heaven  : 
I  thank  it  humbly.     As  for  Marsio, 
He  '11  wake  to-morrow,  and  behold  what  gulfs 
Crime  opens  'twixt  the  richest  criminal 
And  the  frank  brotherhood  of  honest  men, 
However  poor,  —  gulfs  that  must  yawn  forever  ! 


THE  WIDOW'S  MARRIAGE 

A    COMEDY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


LOED  GTJY  RUFFLKE, A  gallant. 

SIR  WILLIAM  TEAVEKS, His  friend. 

HAEET  GOLDSTBAW, Nephew  to  Lady  Goldstraw. 

HOPEFUL, 

SIE  JOHN  POLLEN, 

> Suitors  to  Lady  Goldstraw. 

LOED  FOAM, 

MARKS, 

DAEKLT, Servant  to  Ruffler. 

NICK  PEIOE, Servant  to  Lady  Goldstraw. 

LADY  GOLDSTEAW, An  old  and  icealthy  widow. 

MADGE, Her  daughter. 

DOLLY  FLAEE, Lady  Goldstraw's  maid. 

Ladies,  Gallants,  Tradesmen,  Servants,  fyc. 

SCENE,  London. 
TIME,  Beginning  of  the  reign  of  George  II. 


THE  WIDOW'S  MARRIAGE. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.     A  Street  in  London.     Enter  Sir  WILLIAM  TBAVEES 
and  Lord  GUY  RUFFLES. 

Travers.    GUY,   I  will  not!     This  dodging  petti 
coats 

Round  the  street-corners  —  peeping  into  shops  — 
Leering,  with  shameless  meaning,  under  hoods  — 
Staring  hot  blushes  into  modest  cheeks  — 
And  fancying  a  favor  if  you  catch 
A  wandering  glance  —  is  sheer  against  my  manhood. 
Tut !  man,  you  slander  all  your  female  kin 
By  this  procedure. 

Ruffler.    (Looking  off.)   Do  I  ?  —  Pah  !  look  there  : 
Into  the  goldsmith's  shop  !     Can  they  not  see 
That  I  am  looking  at  them  ?     Travers,  come, 
We  '11  enter,  too  :  I  want  a  ring  —  a  chain.  — 
'Sblood  1  are  the  women  fools  ? 

Trav.  There  seem  to  be 

Two  fools  among  them. 

Ruf.  Speak  you  for  yourself? 

Stand  here  a  while. 


126  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Tram.  For  what  ?     To  be  the  butt 

Of  my  sharp  self-contempt  ?     Huffier  !     [Shaking  him.'] 

Euf.     (Still  looking  off .)  Hey! 

Trav.  Nay ; 

I  'm  talking  to  you. 

Huf.  As  my  grandmother. 

Trav.   You  need  it.    Look  you,  listen  to  me,  Guy  ; 
Do  you  hold  woman  of  no  higher  use  — 

Euf.    Pish  !  let  me  go  :  I  've  business  in  that  shop. 
Unhand  me,  pray.  [Struggles  to  get  away."] 

Trav.  No,  sir,  you  shall  not  go. 

I  cannot  see  an  insult  thrust  upon 
A  modest  woman  ;  and  the  man  who  can, 
Without  his  nature  flaming  into  wrath, 
And  his  arm  lifting  with  instinctive  might, 
Deserves  to  have  his  sisters,  mother,  wife, 
Tossed  in  together  at  a  city's  sack, 
"While  he  looks  on  in  powerless  agony. 

Euf.   You  could  not  please  them  better.     What  a 

stir, 

Among  the  velvets  and  the  damasked  silks, 
There  was  when  the  invading  French  were  feared ! 
What  rubbing  up  of  jewels,  what  a  dust 
Among  old  finery  I     How  some  delicate  maid 
Would  squeak,  in  her  high  treble,  "  Dear  mamma, 
They  say  those  monsters  do  not  spare  the  weak : 
Let  us  be  caught  as  ladies  !  "     Then  the  dame 
Would  smooth  her  powder,  with  a  gentle  sigh 
Of  patient  resignation.     On  my  life, 
I  never  saw  the  women  in  such  feather ! 
You  'd  thought  the  land  was  dressed  for  holiday, 
Not  for  invasion.     All  the  time,  we  men 
Stood  trembling,  like  huge  jellies,  for  our  throats  ; 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  12T 

While  our  brave  women  —  now,  you  see,  I  praise 

them  — 
Made  nothing  of  their  honors  ! 

Trav.  Monstrous  stuff! 

I  would  not  share  your  notions  of  the  sex, 
To  win  a  tribe  of  Helens.     I  can  see, 
Within  the  simple  innocence  and  truth 
Of  uncorrupted  woman,  a  fair  spirit, 
Ranked,  by  all-seeing  Heaven,  not  far  beneath 
Its  sinless  denizens. 

Ruf.    (Laughing.)     Now  Heaven  forgive 
His  wicked  blasphemy  !     I  '11  draw  you  woman, 
According  to  her  earthly  character, 
Not  as  your  poets  make  her.     Woman,  Will, 
Is  animated  vanity.     A  toy 
Made  up  each  morning,  by  a  forward  whim, 
That  scarcely  lasts  the  day  through.    The  same  sigh 
Over  a  broken  fan,  or  a  broken  heart, 
Measures  her  depth  of  feeling.     A  long  stare 
At  the  last  fashion,  on  a  rival's  back, 
Shows  her  ambition.     A  conspicuous  seat 
At  church,  or  theatre,  where  she  may  be 
The  conscious  centre  of  a  thousand  eyes, 
Shows  her  religion,  or  her  taste.     The  power 
To  bear  hot  sentiment,  and  frigid  love, 
Her  soul's  endurance  proves.     Ask  her  to  give 
Her  hero's  character,  and  when  you  have 
The  color  of  his  eyes,  and  hair,  and  cloak, 
You  '11  praise  her  nice  perception.     See  her  weed 
Her  eyebrows  of  gray  hairs,  or  paint  her  cheeks, 
And  there  's  her  industry,  and  love  of  art. 
Come  to  her  death-bed  — 

Trav.  Nay. 


128  THE    WIDOW'S   MARRIAGE. 

Euf.  Well,  end  her  there  : 

The  thing  is  soulless,  and  can  go  no  further. 
Yet,  for  all  this,  a  very  pretty  doll 
For  man  to  dandle. 

Trav.  If  the  heavens  be  just, 

You  '11  pay  this  one  day.     Guy,  I  reverence  woman. 

Euf.   For  what  ?     Here 's  a  discovery,  indeed  ! 
For  what  ? 

Trav.     For  many  things.     And  yet  there  is 
One  thing  I  never  fully  understood,  — 
Love,  love. 

Ruf.         Why,  that 's  the  simplest  thing  on  earth. 

Trav.   The  very  simplest !    Were  you  e'er  in  love  ? 

Euf.   Always. 

Trav.  With  whom  ? 

Ruf.  With  everything  that  wears 

More  than  a  yard  of  velvet  in  its  skirts. 
You  are  a  world  too  wise  for  happiness. 

Trav.    The  man  who  looks  for  it  beyond  himself 
Is  a  mere  fool.     But,  Ruffler,  I  intend 
To  marry  shortly. 

Ruf.  Heaven  preserve  your  victim  ! 

What,  you  '11  set  traps,  ha  ?     Scheme  her  to  your 

bed? 

Play  on  her  weakness  ?  and  declare,  the  while, 
How  much  you  reverence  her  ;  as  travellers  say 
Some  pagans  do,  who  flog  unmercifully 
Their  painted  gods,  and  worship  them,  by  turns. 
You  talk  of  taking  a  poor  maid,  as  though 
She  were  an  oyster.  —  Hist !  they  leave  the  shop, 
And  come  this  way. 

Trav.  In  decency  retire. 

Ruf.   Not  I,  by  Jove  ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  129 

Trav.  To  please  me,  Guy. 

Buf.  Pohl  poh! 

You  are  too  much  humored. 

Trav.  For  a  moment,  then, 

Until  I  can  escape. 

Buf.  Well,  well ;  come  on. 

A  woman,  more  or  less,  is  little  gained, 
And  nothing  lost.     Sneak,  dodge  ;  —  I  am  with  you. 

[They  walk  up  the  stage.'] 
(Enter  LADY  GOLDSTRAW  and  MADGE.) 

Lady  Goldstraw.   La !  they  are  there  again.     It  is 

too  bad : 

I  cannot  walk  abroad,  to  feel  the  sun, 
Without  these  shadows  following.     Every  day 
A  pack  of  courtiers  dog  me  to  my  door  ; 
Or  walk  before  me,  dropping  billet-doux ; 
And  one,  but  Thursday  last  —  I  tell  you,  Madge  — 
Cast  a  French  plume,  that  must  have  cost  the  knave 
A  good  ten  pound,  in  hope  I  would  return  it. 

Madge.    And  did  you  not  ? 

Lady  G.  Not  I,  you  silly  child  ! 

I  set  my  little  foot  upon  it,  thus, 
And  ground  it  in  the  mire  ;  to  show  my  pride, 
And  brave,  contemptuous  spirit.     Mark  those  men : 
See  how  the  tall  one  eyes  me.     Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

[Laughing.] 

A  proper  fellow,  too,  and  bravely  trimmed  : 

A  courtier,  doubtless.     I  do  wonder,  now, 

If 't  was  that  villain  twitched  my  dress  and  sighed, 

As  we   came  through  the   church-door !  —  Mercy ! 

Madge, 

Don't  stare  so  at  them.     Fie  I  you  naughty  child, 
I  'm  blushing  for  you.     Marry !  when  you  've  seen 
VOL.  n.  9 


130  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

As  many  men  as  I,  you  '11  know  a  way 

To  cut  your  eyes  at  them,  that  stirs  them  more 

Than  all  your  rustic  glares. 

Madge.  Come,  mother,  come. 

Yon  jackanapes  is  grinning  like  death's  head, 
With  much  the  same  expression  ;  and  his  friend 
Has  great  ado  to  keep  him  back.     I  fear 
The  coxcomb  will  be  saucy. 

Lady  G.  Will  he,  rogue  ? — 

Let  him  :  I  '11  give  him  better  than  he  sends. 
Why,   things    have   reached   a  pass,   when   pretty 

women 

Are  at  the  beck  of  every  handsome  dog 
That  strolls   the   streets  !     My  husband,  the   Lord 
Mayor  — 

Madge.   Tell  me  the  story  as  we  pass  along. 
Yon  bear  will  slip  his  keeper,  if  we  stay. 

Lady  G.    So,  then,  —  but  how  you  hurry  me  away ! 

[Exit  with  MADGE.] 

(As  they  go  off,  enter  DAEKLY.) 

Euf.    (Advancing.)      Darkly  I 

Darkly.  Forsooth. 

Euf.  "  Forsooth !  "  Geneva-cloak ! 

You  end  of  texts,  and  stupid  homilies, 
You  all  that 's  bad  in  every  Christian  sect, 
Do  you  "  forsooth  "  me,  sirrah,  ha  ? 

Dark.  Amen ! 

Euf.    A  fool !  you  sin-begotten  tag-rag !     What, 
Are  you  pranked  up,  now,  in  your  holy  mood  ? 
Come,  saint,  lay  by  your  amaranthine  crown, 
And  track  those  women. 

Dark.  Ah ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  131 

Euf.  You  sigh !  you  '11  groan 

When  you  have  gotten  to  the  martyrdom, 
I  am  preparing  for  your  sainthood. 

Dark.  0 ! 

Trav.    Guy,  if  hard  knocks  can  break  a  road  to 

heaven, 

You  're  on  the  way.     The  man  has  honest  scruples  ; 
Do  not  outface  his  conscience. 

Euf.  Have  you  scruples  ? — 

Have  you  a  conscience  ?  —  Have  you  anything 
That  hints  at  honesty  within  your  dirt  ? 
I  '11  put  him  to  the  question.    (Seizes  DARKLY.)    Answer 
me! 

Dark.   The  Lord  forbid  ! 

Trav.  Indeed ! 

Euf.  Of  course.     Go,  knave  ! 

Dark.    Why  should  I  follow  the  profane  of  earth, 
The  painted  instruments  of  thy  desire  ? 

Euf.   Because  I  order. 

Dark.  Bear  me  witness,  sir, 

Here,  in  this  world,  and  at  the  last  account, 
I  sin  by  man's  compulsion. 

Trav.  Truly ! 

Dark.  Ah !  [Exit.} 

Euf.   A  wretch    like    that  would    ornament  the 

Shades, 

And  put  the  little  devils  to  the  blush, 
Make  Satan  pine  with  envy,  and  upset 
Chaos  itself.     I  never  saw  his  twin.  * 

The  club  of  Hercules  could  hardly  drive 
One  hand  to  pen  a  love-song,  while  the  other 
Pilfered  his  lion-skin,  with  ohs  and  ahs 
Enough  to  raise  a  whirlwind. 


132  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

(Enter  HENRY  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Trav .  Who  is  this  ? 

What,  Harry  Goldstraw  ?     Happily  met  again. 
We  were  in  Rome  together  —  mind  you,  sir  ?  — 
That  day  the  miracle  would  hardly  work  — 
You  know  the  virgin  that  did  roll  its  eyes  ?  — 
Because  the  rain  had  rusted  something,  ha ! 
Much  to  the  Church's  scandal. 

Goldstraw.  Ay  ;  and  you 

To  Fra  Anselmo,  a  most  bitter  papist, 
Did  seriously  offer  to  anoint 
The  clockwork  with  the  chrism,  and  let  the  Pope 
Go  home  ungreased.     " Che,  che f"  he  cried.     "Be 
cause, 
Fra,"  you  replied,  "  the  Pope's  eyes  roll  without  it !  " 

Trav.    My  friend,   Lord   Ruffler,  Mr.   Goldstraw. 

(They  bow.)      Boys, 

Let 's  shake  up  London  with  a  revel.     How, 
Goldstraw,  you  flinch  ? 

Gold.  I  have  a  reason,  sir. 

You  saw  two  ladies  pass  — 

Euf.  I  told  you  so  : 

Here  is  another  hound  upon  the  scent. 
Look  you,  Will  Travers,  men  are  all  the  same ; 
You  are  the  only  Joseph  upon  earth. 
So  you  were  trailing  them  ?     0  !  never  mind  ; 
We  will  not  quarrel ;  we  '11  divide  them  justly. 
Take  the  old  woman  ;  give  me  the  young  thing : 
I  have  a  taste  for  unripe  fruit.  — 

Gold.  My  lord  - 

Euf.   Well,  you  may  wince,  but  so  fate  orders  it. 
A  fairer  piece  of  Eve  I  never  saw 
Than  the  young  baggage.  You  'd  have  laughed  to  see 
The  little  creature  stare  at  me. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  133 

Trav.  A  look 

Full  of  pure  modesty,  and  more  designed 
For  me  than  you.  , 

Euf.  A  most  immodest  leer. 

Hear,  the  vain  puppy,  how  he  claims  her  glance  ! 

Gold.    I  pray  you,  listen  — 

Euf.  As  for  your  share,  —  phew  ! 

Think  what  a  bundle  of  fine  clothes  you  '11  have  — 
What  pots  of  paint  —  how  many  diiferent  wigs  — 
What  an  array  of  teeth,  all  movable, 
And  warranted  to  baffle  time's  decay  ! 
And  then  her  cotton  ;  —  why,  an  Indiaman 
Carries  no  greater  cargo  !     Whalebone  too  ! 
A  very  female  Jonah,  all  encased 
In  the  sea-monster's  ribs  !     And  mark  — 

Gold.  My  lord, 

Know  you  of  whom  you  speak  ? 

Euf.  Not  I,  in  faith  : 

Some  lady  of  the  suburbs,  I  suppose, 
Who  'd  bargain  for  her  girl.  You  frown  ?  'Ods  blood  ! 
.  Who  is  the  woman,  then  ? 

Gold.  My  aunt. 

Euf.  The  devil ! 

Trav.    Shame  on  you,  Guy  !  You  Ve  given  a  sorry 

wound 

To  the  best  nature  ever  lodged  in  man. 
See  how  a  loose  tongue,  like  an  archer,  blind 
With  the  thick  dust  of  battle,  shoots  its  shafts, 
With  undiscerning  aim,  at  foe  or  friend. 
Down  on  your  knees  ! 

Euf.  Your  pardon.     Here  's  my  hand  ; 

Or,  if  you  like  it  better,  here  's  my  sword  ; 
Both  at  your  service. 


134  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Gold.  By  your  leave,  my  lord, 

I  '11  take  the  hand  ;  it  seems  an  honest  one, 
Though  somewhat  hasty. 

Trav.  Spoken  like  brave  men  ! 

The  sword  should  be  a  backward  arbiter. 
If  human  weakness  can  forgive  a  wrong, 
Without  blood  spilled,  let  it  be  done  ;  for  so  — 
By  just  such  steps  of  charity  and  love  — 
We  climb  to  heaven. 

Ruf.  Alas  !  I  scarcely  know 

How  to  implore  your  confidence  again. 
You  seem  to  bear  a  grief  about  with  you, 
That  I,  perhaps,  might  lighten. 

Trav.  Harry,  speak. 

A  truer  mind,  and  a  more  slippery  tongue, 
A  better  heart,  and  a  more  idle  head, 
Were  never  bundled  up  in  stranger  sort 
Than  in  Guy  Huffier. 

Buf.  When  I  go  to  service, 

My  master  shall  not  get  my  character 
Prom  you,  my  boy. 

Gold.  Alas  !  the  character 

You  gave  my  aunt  fills  up  my  former  grief. 
That  you,  a  stranger,  by  a  casual  glance, 
Should  come  so  near  the  thing  she  really  is, 
Gives  me  a  sorrowful  conclusion.     She  — 
But  I  '11  not  talk.     Come  to  her  house  with  me  ; 
Where,  if  you  be  true  friends,  you  may  behold 
Things  more  for  tears  than  laughter. 

Trav.  Ah  !  I  see. 

Gold.    No,  sir,  you  cannot  see,  with  eyes  like  mine, 
The  open  folly  and  the  vanity 
With  which  she  stains  my  uncle's  troubled  grave,  — 


THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  135 

The  faithful  guardian  of  my  orphanage, 
Whose  fragrant  memory  sheds  no  balm  on  her, 
Amid  the  train  of  fops  and  fashionists 
That  flutter  round  her  gold,  in  buzzing  swarms  ; 
Slaves  whose  mere  presence  would  disgust  the  sense 
Of  many  a  wanton.     All  these  things  have  sprung, 
Not  from  her  heart,  which,  at  the  root,  is  good ; 
But  by  the  culture  of  such  poisoned  sprouts 
As  grow  upon  the  surface  of  our  nature,  — 
Self-love  and  vanity.     But  come  ;  I  '11  preach 
More  by  example,  if  you  feel  inclined. 

Trav.   Nay,  Harry,  quit  these  dumps.     A  woman's 

whims 
Are  all  too  light  to  bow  so  strong  a  soul. 

Euf.    I  '11  find  a  way  to  cure  her  malady. 
I  never  saw  a  woman  yet  of  stuff 
I  could  not  mould,  as  was.  before  a  fire. 
Some  merry  plot,  half  serious  and  half  gay, 
I  '11  plan.     I  undertake  it,  sir  ;  and  what 
I  undertake,  I  do. 

Trav.  Go  to  I    Here  is  [Patting  RUFFLEB.] 

My  Vanity,  my  Ego,  my  great  Me  : 
Match  any  woman  with  him,  if  you  can  !       [Exeunt.'] 


SCENE  H. 

A   Reception-Room    in    LADY    GOLDSTKAW'S    House.       Enter 
MADGE. 

Madge.   When  will  my  mother  hold  her  years  to  be 
Beyond  man's  courtship  ?     0  !  it  sickens  me 
To  see  her  deck  her  ruins  with  bright  flowers,  — 


136  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Through  which  the  ugly  seams  will  peep,  withal,  — 

While  I,  who,  in  the  course  of  nature,  am  as  fit 

For  flowers  as  Spring  is,  shut  my  roses  up, 

And  pine  beneath  her.     Child,  forsooth  !    A  child 

Of  twenty  summers,  who  must  know  its  bounds, 

Its  nursery,  its  book,  its  pretty  toy  ; 

Rise  with  the  lark,  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb  ;  — 

Must  I,  indeed  ?  —  while  she  makes  daybreak  blush 

To  see  her  revels,  and  high  noon  amazed 

To  catch  her  sleeping.     If  I  knew  a  man, 

Of  all  her  tribe,  worth  loving  —  Not  so  fast : 

There  's  cousin  Hal,  worth  all  the  bearded  race  ; 

But  what  cares  he  ?     Would  I  were  not  his  cousin  I 

Ah,  well !  Hal  is  so  modest  too  :  a  fashion 

That  went  out  with  the  tilting-spears  and  shields. 

Poor  chivalry  !  they  scorn  you  ;  but  you  died 

Rather  for  lack  of  heroes,  to  renew 

Your  drooping  laurels,  than  your  own  misdeeds. 

If  I  were  Hal  —  How  he  torments  me  ! 

(Enter  LADY  GOLDSTKAW.) 

Lady  Goldstraw.  Child, 

You  must  be  jogging  :  your  embroidery 
Needs  a  few  stitches,  and  your  French  has  gone 
The  saints  know  where  ! 

Madge.  The  saints  know  little,  madam, 

Of  where  the  French  go.     If  the  French  go  — 

Lady  G.  Fie! 

Your  tongue  is  idler  than  your  hands.     Go,  go  ; 
Get  to  your  book.     I  spoil  you,  silly  child, 
By  my  indulgence. 

Madge.  Nay  ;  I  think  you  spoil 

My  mother  more  by  your  indulgence. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  137 

Lady  G.  Mistress, 

Would  you  be  pert  ? 

Madge.  Not  if  I  could  respect. 

Pray  hear  me,  mother. 

Lady  G.  To  your  room,  I  say  ! 

I  '11  cool  your  blood  upon  a  water  diet,  — 
Impudent  nursling  ! 

Madge.  Madam ! 

Lady  G.  To  your  room  !     [Exit  MADGE.] 

0  !  what  a  fume  she  put  me  in !  I  fear 
My  poor  complexion  has  not  stood  the  shock 
Of  this   emotion.       (Looks  at  a  mirror.)      Yes  ;    a  fair 

escape ! 

No  crack  nor  line,  and  not  a  hair  awry. 
Prior  !     (Enter  NICK  PRIOR.)     Who  waits  below  ? 

Nick.  Why,  Master  Hopeful,  mam. 

Hope  ;s  first  to  come,  and  last  to  go  away. 

Lady  G.    No  words  !  Admit  him.    Now,  I  wonder 

why 
This  whole  house  treats  me  with  such  disrespect  ? 

[Aside.'} 

Go,  sir !     I  '11  get  a  master  for  you,  sirrah, 
To  swinge  you  roundly. 

Nick.  How  the  old  girl  shines  ! 

She  must  have  varnished  down  her  paint  to-day. 

[Aside.     Exit.'} 

Lady  G.   Ho !  here  he  comes.     Lie  still,  my  little 

heart ! 
Why  wilt  thou  flutter,  tender  fool  ?     Ah  me  ! 

[Si?iks  into  a  chair."] 

(Enter   HOPEFUL.     RUFFLER,  TRAVERS,   and  GOLDSTRAW,  enter 
behind,  observing  the  scene. ) 

Hopeful.    Queen  of  my  soul,  sweet  agony  of  bliss, 


138  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Adored  deceiver  !  daylight  is  agog 

To  see  thy  coining  ;  though  bright  Phoebus  knows 

Thy  light  will  shame  him !     Wherefore,  wherefore, 

wherefore, 

Cruel  eye  of  beauty,  didst  thou  keep  thy  slave 
Sitting  upon  a  hall-stool  ?     Has  thy  heart 
No  sympathetic  thrill  to  waste  upon 
Joints  stiffened  in  thy  service,  rheumatisms 
Beyond  red  flannel  and  mustard  ? 

Lady  G.  Faithless  bard, 

What,  dost  thou  murmur  at  thy  bondage,  then  ? 
I  could  well-nigh  forbid  your  lips  to  press 
The  lilies  of  this  hand. 

[Extends  her  hand,  which  he  kisses.] 

Hope.  Nay,  mistress  mine, 

My  grief  is  closed  within  rny  placid  heart, 
As  those  fair  lilies  when  they  fold  to  rest 
Upon  thy  snowy  bed-quilt.     Hear,  0,  hear ! 

[Takes  out  a  paper.] 

This  Sonnet  to  thy  glory.     Little,  lady, 
Compared  with  their  sweet  source,  the  verses  seem ; 
As  rivers  which  seem  trifles  to  their  springs  — 
Nay,  I  am  out  somehow.    (Aside.)    But  give  thy  ear 
To  this  soft  melody  of  Phoebus's.  [Reads.] 

0  !  ever-to-be-remembered  day  and  night ! 

0  !  never-to-be-forgotten  ecstasy  ! 
0  !  sun-god,  with  thy  sky-born  eyes,  day-bright, 

O'er-look  the  song-soul  of  thy  votary  ! 
0  !  teach  his  love-pen  how  to  soothly  write 

Of  the  not-now-forgotten  hour,  when  I 
Poured  out  my  love-words  to  the  worthiest  wight 

That  wends,  heart-bound,  beneath  ceruleous  sky ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  139 

0  !  dip  my  ink-dried  pen  in  a  sunset ; 

Roll  out  a  white-cloud  scroll,  without  a  flaw  ; 
For  sand,  powder  a  storm-cloud  up  ;  and  get 

Venus  to  set  her  silvern  taper,  for 
To  light  thy  Poet ;  and  one  name  he  '11  set 

Across  the  sky,  and  it  shall  be  —  Goldstraw  ! 

Lady  G.  A  sweet,  sweet  sonnet !  much  in  Petrarch's 

way. 

Yours  is  a  pretty  gift  of  poesy. 
Hist !  be  discreet. 

Hope.  I  hear  profane  strong  steps ; 

Much  like  a  man  with  heavy  boots  might  make. 
Lo  1  rivals,  madam  !     Lo  !  the  slaves  that  tear 
My  heart  out,  and  destroy  my  appetite  I 

{Enter  LOUD  FOAM,  SIR  JOHN  POLLEN,  and  MAKES.) 

Lady  O.   Fair  welcome,   gentlemen !      You  have 

missed  much  — 
The  poet's  latest  verse.     Read  it  again. 

Hope.  At  thy  command  I  would  do  much.    But,  no, 
No  common  ear  shall  list  to  holy  verse. 
Yet  if  you  will  — 

Marks.  Don't  break  yourself  for  us  ; 

Keep  something  back  to  live  on. 

Foam.  La !  they  say 

Your  verse  is  stale  before  the  ink  gets  dry. 

Hope.    They  wrong  me  foully ! 

Pollen.    (Aside  to  HOPEFUL.)     At  him  !    In  my  day  — 
In  Flanders,  yonder  —  I  have  seen  a  throat 
Cut  for  less  insults.     By  the  devil's  blood ! 
I  smell  a  coward. 


140  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Hope.  Cut  the  miscreant's  gorge, 

Here,  in  this  presence  ! 

Pol.  Ay  ;  and  fling  his  head 

Into  her  lap.     When  we  were  leaguers,  bully, 
Down  there  at  Antwerp,  an  old  Spanish  Don 
One  morning  sent  his  mistress,  by  the  post, 
The  heads  of  all  her  twenty  paramours, 
Strung  on  a  rope  like  onions. 

Hope.  Horrible ! 

Brought  they  no  tears  into  her  woman's  eyes  ? 

Marks.    No,  sir  ;  she  did  not  peel  them. 

Pol.  Look  you,  sir, 

I  am  a  soldier. 

Marks.  Then,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  not. 

Foam.   La !  fairly  struck !     Good  boy,  good  boy ! 

I  kiss 
Your  worship's  hand. 

Pol.  Small  shot  and  thunder  !     Turks, 

I  '11  teach  your  tongues  — 

[LADY  GoLDSTRAw/atrais,  supported  by  HOPEFUL.] 

Hope.  Hold,  ruffians  !    Look  here, 

And  see  your  handiwork. 

Pol.  'Ods  bayonets  ! 

Twitch  her  nose,  Foam. 

Hope.  Who  twitches  dies  the  death  I 

Foam.    A  fan,  a  fan,  la  !     Merchant,  bring  a  fan  ! 

Marks.    "  A  fan  !  "    No  ;  bring  some  water. 

All.    (Running  about.)  Water,  water  1 

Lady  G.    (Starting  up.)    No  ;  bring  no  water;  I  am 
not  afire. 

Marks.    Nor  do  you  use  fast  colors  for  your  cheeks, 
Or  water  would  not  wake  you.  [Aside.] 


THE    WIDOW'S    MAKRIAGE.  141 

Pol.  Blood  and  drums  I 

I  beg  for  quarter. 

Lady  G.  Water  me,  forsooth  I 

Do  I  look  withered  ? 

Hope.  Spare,  my  gracious  queen,    [Kneels.] 

The  wretch  who  kneels  before  you,  and  inclines 
His  lips  unto  your  shoe-string  ! 

Lady  G.  For  his  sake, 

I  spare  you  all. 

Marks.  Had  I  your  guineas  safe, 

I  'd  spare  your  sparing.  [Aside.'] 

Foam.  La  !  how  kind  you  are  I 

Hope.   A  royal  amnesty ! 

Lady  G.  But  leave  me,  sirs ; 

My  nerves  are  shattered. 

Hope.  Misery,  misery ! 

Pol.  JS wounds  I 

This  thing  has  fallen  like  a  ten-pound  shell 
Among  a  company. 

Hope.  0  !  pardon,  pardon  ! 

Lady  G.   I  pardon  all.     Go,  I  implore ! 

Foam.  Adieu !    [Exit,  gayly.] 

Marks.    'Sdeath !  must  I  lose  more  interest  ? 

[Aside.     Exit.} 

Pol.  Soul  of  me  ! 

Where  shall  I  dine  to-day  ?  [Aside.    Exit.'} 

Hope.  0  !  agony  ! 

I  did  not  read  my  sonnet  to  them.    (Aside.)    Ha  ! 

[Starting.] 
One  look,  and  then  the  pall  of  midnight  falls  1 

[Exit,  wildly."] 

Lady  G.    One  cheek  has  cracked :  I  felt  it  giving 
way 


142  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

When  they  cried  "  water."     Doll,  what,  Doll,  I  say! 
Ha  !  there  's  the  handsome  stranger  of  the  street ; 
And  come  to  court  me,  doubtless.     Lack-a-day  ! 

0  !  had  those  brutes  cried  anything  but  "  water !  " 

,    {.Exit."] 
(RUFFLER,  TRAVERSE,  and  GOLDSTRAW,  advance.) 

Ruffler.    0  !  such  a  farce  ! 

Traverse.  Such  actors  too  !     But,  Hal, 

Where  is  your  cousin  ? 

Goldstraw.  Prisoned  by  my  aunt ; 

Kept  out  of  sight.     Blooming  and  withering 
Show  ill  in  company. 

Ruf.  Such  vanity 

1  've  heard  of.  — 

Trav.  Practised. 

Buf.  How  ? 

Trav.  Why,  in  yourself; 

Is  not  all  womankind  in  love  with  you  ? 

Ruf.    That 's  not  my  fault. 

Trav.  Guy,  you  are  sharp  enough 

For  others'  follies,  stone-blind  to  your  own. 

Ruf.    Bah  !  hang  your  sermons  !    Goldstraw,  I  've 

a  plan 

Working  within  me,  but  scarce  formed  as  yet. 
Let  us  to  Travers'  lodgings  ;  where  I  '11  lie 
Till  time  has  brought  my  struggling  thought  to  light. 

Trav.    Onward  !  —  But,  Hal,  if  widow,  maid,  or 

wife, 

Should  look  upon  us,  as  we  pass  along, 
Pray  you  remember,  all  the  sweetest  looks 
Belong  by  right  to  Ruffler ;  all  the  frowns 
To  us,  by  imposition.     Forward,  then  1          [Exeunt.} 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.    TRAVERS'  Lodgings.    RTJFFLER,  TRAVERS,  and  GOLD- 
STRAW,  discovered. 

Trovers.   YOUR  plot  comes  hardly,  Ruffler. 

Euffler.  Not  at  all : 

But,  as  you  say,  if  the  old  lady's  follies 
Could  reach  the  end  they  aim  at,  she  would  find 
A  keen  repentance  following  her  success. 
She  must  be  married  ;  that 's  the  starting-point. 

Goldslraw.    "Married!"    Nay,  that 's  the  ending- 
point,  I  fear. 

For,  in  a  furious  outburst  of  her  folly, 
Or  by  the  coming  of  some  needy  fellow, 
Of  handsome  person  and  adroit  designs, 
She  may  be  cozened  to  clap  up  a  match, 
Either  with  one  who  dangles  in  her  train, 
Or  an  adventurer  who  will  spend  her  wealth, 
Rob  my  poor  cousin  of  her  heritage, 
And  break  both  hearts  together. 

Trav.  A  shrewd  fear. 

For,  Guy,  suppose  yourself  a  ruined  man  ; 
How  easy  would  it  be  to  mend  your  rents 
With  Lady  Goldstraw's  patches  ! 

Euf.  True  enough. 

Trav.    'T  is  well  all  sharpers  have  not  your  address, 
Or  heaven  protect  rich  widows  ! 


144  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Buf.  Hum  !    Suppose 

That  I  should  marry  her.  [Laughing.] 

Trav.  He  takes  the  bait.       [Aside.] 

'Sdeath  !  what  a  life  you  'd  lead  her  !     It  would  cure 
Her  amorous  fancies  till  her  dying  day. 
Lord  !  how  she  'd  shy,  and  try  to  throw  you  off, 
And  how  you  'd  cling  and  spur  !    I  understand  : 
Married  in  jest,  by  Darkly,  or  some  knave 
With  reverend  face  ;  — just  for  a  day  or  so  ? 
'T  would  work  like  poison.     Ah  !  you  cunning  dog, 
What  nimble  wits  you  have  !  [Laughing.] 

Gold.  Yes  ;  how  they  skip, 

When  Travers  pulls  the  wires  !  [Aside.] 

Ruf.  Well,  there  's  my  plan  ; 

Born  by  due  course  of  nature,  as  you  see, 
Without  the  aid  of  doctors. 

Trav.  Brava,  wife  ! 

No  ;  pshaw  !  you  gull  us.     What,  you  will  not  dare 
To  carry  out  your  artful  project,  man  ? 
I  doubt  your  courage.     Hal,  what  think  you,  Hal  ? 

Gold.    I  would  be  loath  to  see  her  ladyship 
The  victim  of  a  plot. 

Trav.  Yet,  after  all, 

Could  it  exceed  the  antics  of  to-day  — 
The  lovers,  and  the  sonnet,  and  the  swoon  ? 
And  why  not  touch  her  feelings,  and  awake 
The  torpid  heart  that  smothers  in  her  follies, 
And  makes    her  monstrous  ?     Ruffler's   scheme  is 

good  — 

Excellent,  exquisite,  without  a  flaw  — 
And  easily  practised. 

Ruf.  Ay,  simplicity, 

That 's  your  true  mark  of  genius  ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  145 

Gold.  I  '11  consider. 

Ruf.    Nay,   now,  you   shall  consent.     I  will  not 

have 

The  travail  of  my  brain  miscarry  quite 
Through  stupid  counsel.     'T  is  the  only  way  ; 
And  if  you  shrink,  I  '11  offer  no  more  plans. 
Live  on,  and  suffer  by  your  obstinacy. 

Gold.    What  think  you,  Travers  ? 

Trav .  Soberly,  I  think 

The  plot  a  sound  one :  and,  besides,  if  he 
Wring  the  old  lady  past  her  sufferance, 
We  can  remit ;  for  then  the  cure  will  be, 
Beyond  a  doubt,  accomplished. 

Gold.  I  consent. 

But  deal  as  a  good  surgeon  ;  give  no  pain 
Where  pain  is  needless  ;  cut  the  cancer  out, 
But  spare  the  patient. 

Ruf.  Mark  me,  gentlemen  ; 

I  '11  have  no  interference  ;  you  must  be 
But  instruments,  not  artists,  in  my  work. 
Prepare  yourselves  for  orders. 

Trav.  We  '11  obey.      [RUFFLER  struts  up  the  stage.} 

Gold.   Travers,  I  never  saw  such  vanity  — 
Of  all  complexions,  shapes,  and  shades  —  in  man. 
He  takes  your  thoughts  out  of  your  very  teeth, 
Swallows,  and  casts  them  up,  as  carelessly 
As  though  your  brain  were  his. 

Trav.    (Laughing.)  And  SO  it  is. 

His  weakness  does  not  hide  his  nobler  parts 
From  my  respect.     We  '11  hit  upon  some  way 
To  cure  both  patients  with  one  medicine. 

VOL.  n.  10 


146  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

(Enter  DARKLY.) 

Ruf.    (Seizing him.)   Where  have  you  tarried  ?     By 

the  holy  rood, 
I  feel  like  basting  you  ! 

Darkly.  Swear  Christian  oaths  ! 

Do  not  afflict  me  with  the  filth  of  Rome  — 
The  bells,  the  candles,  or  the  holy  rood  — 
The  graven  images,  or  painted  saints  — 
The  monks,  or  bulls,  or  other  horned  beasts  — 
The- 

Trav.     Peace  !  you  hypocrite,  you  sightless  mole, 
Who  burrow  in  the  dirt  and  lees  of  things, 
Nor  see  the  flowers  that  root  in  the  decay 
Of  Roman  greatness,  to  delight  our  time  ! 
Peace,  wretch  !  that  ancient  church  held  up  a  torch, 
To  light  our  fathers  through  the  utter  gloom 
Of  feudal  ignorance  !    Learning  lived  in  her ; 
Her  cloisters  saved  the  wondrous  minds  that  made 
Greece  beautiful  and  Rome  imperial. 
What  if  she  lag  behind  this  rapid  age  ? 
Is  she  not  old  ?  and  age  claims  man's  respect. 
What  if  the  daylight  show  the  torch's  smoke  ? 
Did  it  not  serve  us  in  the  middle  night, 
And  light  us  towards  the  morning  ?   Rome,  thou  fool ! 
There  's  not  a  church,  from  Luther  to  George  Fox, 
That  on  her  broad  foundations  is  not  built ! 

Ruf.    You  hurl  a  thunderbolt  against  a  gnat. 
Peace,  father  Will ! 

Trav.  You  heard  the  villain  prate. 

I  am  no  Papist,  yet  it  angers  me 
To  see  that  noble  bulwark  of  our  faith 
Touched  with  irreverent  hands. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  147 

Euf.  Well,  sirrah,  well ! 

Where  have  you  been  ? 

Dark.  I  tarried  round  the  house 

Of  the  gay  gentile,  near  the  offices, 
Over  against  the  backside  of  the  court ; 
And  there  I  saw  her  handmaids  and  her  men 
Bear  the  ^epast  to  its  allotted  place. 

Euf.    (Mimicking  him.)     And,    peradventure,    thou 

didst  enter  in, 

To  fill  thy  inward  man  with  broken  meats. 
Yea,  and  I  marvel  that  thou  didst  not  burst 
Thy  hide  with  stuffing.     For,  bethink  thee,  brother, 
It  falls  on  fast-day,  when  it  is  thy  use 
To  cram  thee  grossly,  just  to  scorn  the  church. 

Dark.    Yea,  verily. 

Euf.  Out,  glutton  ! 

Dark.  And  it  chanced, 

A  maid  of  comly  mien,  and  smooth  of  skin  — 

Euf.    How  did  you  know  the  texture  of  her  skin  ? 

Dark.    In  divers  ways. 

Euf.  Ugh,  losel ! 

Dark.  And  I  called, 

And  said  unto  the  maid,  in  modest  tongue  — 

Euf.    With  a  most  filthy  leer. 

Dark.  Whose  habitation, 

Or  whose  dwelling-place,  dost  thou  abide  in  ? 
And  she  answered  me,  "  The  Lady  Goldstraw's, 
Widow  to  a  mayor  of  mighty  London  ; 
A  brave  and  portly  dame,  stricken  in  years, 
But  full  of  amorous  blood."     And  who  the  damsel  ? 
I  questioned ;  and  she  made  reply,  "  Young  Madge, 
A  child  of  twenty  summers."     So  I  rose, 
And  came  my  way. 


148  THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Euf.  Unconscionable  liar ! 

You  have  been  nobbing  in  stale  beer  with  her, 
Eating  cold  pasties  ;  and,  for  after  cates, 
You  stole  a  brace  of  kisses.     Come,  put  on 
Your  sanctimonious  garb,  and  follow  me.  — 
Are  you  prepared  ?  [To  TBAVERS  and  GOLDSTHAW.] 

Trav.  Yea,  verily ! 

Gold.  In  sooth ! 

Dark.    0,  0,  alas !  how  the  profane  ones  scoff! 

[Exeunt.] 

SCENE  H. 

Jin  Ante-Room  in  LADY  GOLDSTHAW'S  house.  Enter  TRAVERS  and 
MADGE. 

Travers.   So  love  died  long  ago  ? 

Madge.  When  Venus  died, 

With  her  three  Graces,  and  the  Golden  Age 
Came  limping  downward  to  these  prosy  days 
Of  gain  and  reason.     If  we  marry  now, 
'T  is  this  lord's  park  wedding  that  lady's  field ; 
Or  this  man's  money-bags  and  that  dame's  plate, 
Joined  at  compounded  interest ;  or  John's  arm 
Mated  to  Polly's  thrift.     Or  give  the  theme 
A  wider  scope  —  throw  wealth  and  sense  aside  — 
And  then  'tis  folly  caught  by  beauty's  glare  ; 
Or  base  desire  asking  the  church's  seal, 
To  sin  by  charter  ;  or  sad  loneliness 
Seeking  companionship  ;  or  simple  malice 
Seizing  a  helpless  victim  to  torment, 
While  the  law  nods  approval ;  or  —  or —  or — 
For  any  motive,  good  or  bad,  you  please, 
But  not  for  love.     Love  has  no  motives,  sir, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  149 

No  purposes,  no  aims,  no  selfish  wish  ; 
Love  is  its  own  reward. 

Trav.  Indeed  !  then  love 

For  nothing  sighs  —  for  nothing  groans  and  weeps — 
For  nothing  wrings  his  hands,  and  tears  his  hair ; 
Or  with  this  nothing  being  enraged,  for  nothing 
He  fires  a  house,  or  cuts  a  rival's  throat, 
Or  leads  the  Greeks  into  a  ten  years'  war, 
And  tumbles  blazing  Ilium  o'er  her  walls  : 
And  all  for  nothing ! 

Madge.  Then  was  love  a  god  ; 

Men  demi-gods,  who  stalked  through  history 
A  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  the  world : 
Ah  !  there  were  heroes  then  ! 

Trav.  And  heroes  now. 

Are  heroes  proven  by  the  knocks  they  take  ?  — 
Is  blood  the  only  livery  of  renown  ? 
I  knew  a  sickly  artisan,  a  man 
Whose  only  tie  to  life  was  one  pale  child, 
His  dead  wife's  gift.     Yet,  for  that  single  tie, 
He  bore  a  life  that  would  have  blanched  the  face 
Of  armed  Hector  ;  bore  the  hopeless  toil, 
That  could  but  scrape  together  one  day's  food ; 
Bore  the  keen  tortures  of  a  shattered  frame, 
The  sneer  of  pride,  the  arrogance  of  wealth  ; 
All  the  dread  curses  of  man's  heritage, 
Summed  in  one  word  of  horror  —  poverty  !  — 
Ay,  bore  them  with  a  smile.     And  all  the  time, 
His  ears  were  full  of  whispers.     In  his  hand, 
The  common  tools  of  work  turned  from  their  use, 
And  hinted  —  death  !     The  river  crossed  his  path, 
Sliding  beneath  the  bridge,  so  lovingly, 
And  murmuring  —  death  !     Upon  his  very  hearth 


150  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

The  tempter  sat,  amid  the  flaming  coals, 

And  talked  with  him  of —  death  !    A  thousand  ways 

Lay  open,  for  his  misery  to  escape  ; 

Yet  there  he  stood,  and  labored  for  his  child, 

Till  Heaven  in  pity  took  the  twain  together.  — 

He  was  a  hero  ! 

Madge.  Sir,  you  sadden  me. 

Trav.    Is  man,  then,  so  degenerate  ? 

Madge.  On  my  faith, 

You  prove  the  thing  worth  something. 

Trav.  Would  that  I 

Could  prove  it  in  my  person ! 

Madge.  Why  ? 

Trav.  Fair  Madge, 

I  'd  have  you  love  me. 

Madge.  Horrors  !  what  a  man  ! 

How  many  houses  have  you  ?     How  much  land  ? 
How  many  guineas  ?     Are  your  cattle  fat  ? 
Could  you  afford  a  carriage  ?     Sir,  you  see, 
Having  no  father,  I  must  look  to  this, 
As  you  'd  be  loved,  in  my  own  person.     Come  ; 
Set  up  your  claim.     What  settlement,  Sir  William, 
Can  you  make  good  upon  my  daughter  ? 

Trav.  Sir, 

I  am  a  hero  of  the  Golden  Age, 
Belated  in  your  times.     A  love  like  mine 
Is  its  own  blessed  reward.     I  nothing  seek  ; 
And,  therefore,  nothing  will  I  give.     My  love 
Is  an  abstraction,  a  divine  idea, 
That  settles  on  your  daughter,  my  good  sir, 
For  want  of  better  habitation. 

Madge.  Pshaw ! 

You  '11  vex  me,  shortly :  I  abhor  a  quiz. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  151 

Trav.    Why,  so  do  I  ;  and  hating  thus  myself,. 
I  leave  myself,  and  cast  my  love  on  you. 

Madge.    Which  love  is  self-love,  by  your  own  con*- 
fession. 

Trav.    And  being  self-love,  of  the  best  quality. 
Find  me,  between  the  poles,  such  tenderness 
As  that  men  lavish  on  themselves  ;  such  sigh& 
As  they  can  utter  o'er  their  private  griefs  ; 
Such  tears  as  their  own  miseries  call  forth  ; 
Such  perfect  and  complete  oblivion 
To  all  the  world,  for  their  own  darling  selves  I 
It  would  shame  Hero  o'er  Leander's  corpse,. 
To  hear  the  anguish  that  a  surgeon's  knife 
Can  waken  in  his  patient., 

Madge.  Farewell,  sir ! 

I  '11  hope  to  meet  you  in  a  graver  mood. 

Trav.    I  shaped  my  mood  by  yours.  —  But  oaie 

word  more. 

Suppose  me  grave  ;  should  I  have  credit,  then  ? 
You  shake  your  head.    Pray,  when  will  you  believe  ? 

Madge.    When  I  believe  in  love.  [Exit.] 

Trav.  I  like  thee,  Madge  : 

Would  I  could  love  thee,  as  thou  dost  deserve  ; 
But  love  !  —  0,  fie  !    I  '11  swear  I  cannot  love. 
Yet  I  must  feign  it ;  drop  philosophy, 
And  rave  myself  into  a  lunatic. 
I  like  thee,  though,  beyond  a  shade  of  doubt ; 
And  there  's  a  nature  underlays  thy  mirth 
That  well  approves  the  feeling.     'T  is  full  time 
I  should  set  up  a  nursery,  and  prolong 
The  race  of  Travers  ;  or  my  father's  bones 
Will  rise  against  me.     He  who  wills  can  win. 

[Exit.] 


152  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

(Enter  DOLLY  FLARE.) 

Dolly.    My  !  what  a  handsome  gentleman  !     How 

well 

He  'd  look,  if  he  had  Mr.  Darkly's  way 
Of  pious  conversation  !     There  's  a  man 
The  devil  fears,  I  warrant ! 

(Enter  DARKLY.) 

Darkly.  Sister  Flare, 

How  is  it  with  thee,  sister  ? 

Dol.  Poorly,  thank  Heaven  ! 

Dark.    0  !  weaker  vessel,  dost  thou  feel  the  need 
Of  faith,  to  steady  thee  ? 

Dol.  I  fear  I  do. 

Dark.    Um,  um !  faint  soul,  thou  shalt  not  ask  in 

vain 

The  arm  of  succor,    (Embracing her.)   or  the  guiding 
hand.  [  Taking  her  hand.'} 

And,  peradventure,  it  might  comfort  thee 
To  taste  a  morsel  of  refreshing  strength  : 

[Taking  a  bottle  from  her  pocket.} 
Albeit,  the  spirit  is  strong,  the  flesh  is  weak, 
And  cries  for  aid.      (Gives  the  bottle.     She  drinks.)     Yea, 

verily  !  alas ! 

How  much  the  poor  soul  needs  !     But  go  thy  ways  ; 
My  strength  is  waning,  even  as  thine  doth  wax. 

[Takes  the  bottle  from  her.} 

When  thou  dost  falter  by  the  way,  look  up  !  — 
Even  though  this  carnal  vial  cleave  unto  thee, 
Defy  the  tempter,  and  look  up,  I  say  I 

[Throws  back  his  head,  and  drinks.} 

Dol.    (Taking  the  bottle.)    I  will,  indeed.    0  !  sir,  you 

have  not  left 
A  drop  to  try  my  strength  on. 


THE   WIDOW'S   MARRIAGE.  153 

Dark.  Marvel  not : 

Sore  was  I  tempted.     Thou  of  little  faith, 

0  !  frail  of  purpose,  canst  thou  not  look  up  ? 

[She  looks  up,  and  he  kisses  her.] 

Dol.    (Starting.)    010! 

Dark.        Does  thy  strength  fail  ?  Look  up,  I  say  I 
[She  looks  up,  and  he  kisses  her.] 
Dost  thou  feel  easier  ?     Is  the  tempter  laid  ? 

Dol.    I  could  look  up  forever. 

Dark.  Verily, 

Thy  faith  is  great,  0,  blessed  sister  Flare ! 
Perchance  I  may  abide  beneath  this  roof; 
And  if  it  happen,  I  will  come  to  thee, 
Even  to  thy  chamber,  to  exhort  with  thee, 
And  wrestle  with  the  tempter. 

Dol.  Dear,  good  man  ! 

1  don't  deserve  it,  sir,  indeed  I  don't : 

I  feel  so  dismal-like,  when  you  are  nigh, 
And  I  can  see  your  blessed  face.     010! 
I  fear  I  am  a  sinner,  sir  !  [  Weeps.] 

Dark.  Look  up ! 

[She  looks  up,  he  kisses  her,  and  exit.] 

(Enter  RUFFLEK  and  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Ruffler.    Here  I  am,  Harry,  in  my  best  array. 
But  where  is  Travers  ? 

Goldstraw.  Somewhere  hereabout  : 

He  strayed  off  with  my  cousin.     Dolly,  girl, 
What  are  you  staring  at  ? 

Ruf.  A  pretty  maid  !  — 

Hist,  hist !  I  '11  wake  her.  [Steals  up  to  kiss  her.] 

Dol.    (Strikintj  him.)    Out,  tempter,  out ! 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !  [Exit.] 


154  THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Buf.  Blood  of  mine  ! 

What  a  she-devil ! '  \_Rubbing  his  face.'} 

Gold.  What  has  come  o'er  her  ? 

Ruf.   Plague  on  her  handling !     Now,  I  tell  you, 

Hal, 

That 's  the  first  check  I  e'er  received  from  woman. 
She 's  taken  me  for  you. 

Gold.  Without  a  doubt. 

You  're  welcome  to  the  error. 

Buf.  Now,  suppose 

I  open  on  the  widow.     I  intend 
To  carry  the  whole  matter  through  by  storm. 
Who  are  within  ? 

Gold.  Fools  :  the  same  silly  crowd. 

You  'd  better  join  them. 

Buf.  Mark  me  put  them  down, 

Clear  the  whole  field,  and  catch  the  widow  up 
Before  she  can  draw  breath.  — ' 

Gold.  Or  hear  a  word 

That  sounds  like  reason. 

Buf.  Ay,  ay  !    Forward,  then  ! 

Sound,  trumpets !     I  am  armed  to  win  the  day ! 

[Exeunt.] 

SCENE  m. 

A  Room  in  the  Same.     LADY  GOLDSTRAW,  LORD  FOAM,  SIR  JOHN 
POLLEN,  HOPEFUL,  and  MARKS,  discovered. 

Hopeful.    Star  of  our  lives,  make  an  election  now. 
Behold  thy  four  slaves  suppliant  at  thy  heels  ; 

[They  kneel.] 

And  all  they  beg,  imperial  dame  of  hearts, 
Is  that  thou  'It  choose,  among  their  number,  one, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  155 

To  make  the  partner  of  thy  four-post  bed. 

Would  thou  couldst  honor  all,  and  shame  the  Turk 

By  a  reversal  of  his  way  of  life  ; 

Yet  since  vile  law  confines  thee  to  but  one, 

Choose  from  among  us  here  the  worthiest ; 

And  let  the  remnant  of  thy  slaves  depart, 

Covering  their  misery  with  their  handkerchiefs. 

As  for  myself —  [They  all  start  up.] 

All  Hold,  Hopeful ! 

Pollen.  Honor,  honor! 

Marks.   We  chose  you  spokesman,  and  not  advo 
cate. 
You  must  not  speak,  or  speak  for  all  alike. 

Foam.   La !  yes  ;  well  put ! 

Lady  Goldstraw.  How  shall  I  choose  aright, 

Where  no  one  seems  unworthy  ?     Marry,  sirs, 
A  simple  woman,  immature  in  years  — 
Though  wise  beyond  them  —  here  may  hesitate, 
And  hand  upon  the  syllable  of  judgment. 
I  like  the  martial  air  of  bold  Sir  John  — 

Pol.    'Sdeath  !  yes  :  at  Antwerp  — 

Hope.  Peace  I  an  angel  blabs. 

Lady  G.    I  like  the  manners  of  Lord  Foam  — 

Foam.  La,  now ! 

Lady  G.   The  thrift  of  Marks  ;  the  wild  poetic  soul 
That  throbs  in  Hopeful  — 

Hope.  Glory  to  my  queen  ! 

She  chooses  nicely. 

Marks.  Cease  your  braying,  ass, 

Until  she  chooses. 

Pol.  ( To  HOPEFUL.)  Breathe  another  word, 
And  I  will  scour  my  rapier  in  your  soul ! 

Marks.    Let  us  cast  lots. 


156  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Hope.  Back,  merchant !  Slave,  to  thee  !  — 

[  To  POLLEN.] 

What !  dost  thou  scorn  the  poet  ?    Flanders'  knight, 
He  of  the  lyre  is  master  of  the  blade  ; 
Nor  goes  out,  like  a  candle,  at  thy  puff! 

Lady  G.    Beseech  you,  gentlemen  !  — 

Hope.  Pray  not  for  him  : 

His  cause  doth  soil  the  ruby  of  thy  lip 
With  present  arsenic.     On  my  angry  sword 
Grim  horror  sits,  and  murder  is  about ! 
Away  !  [The  others  seize  him.'} 

Pol.  I  pray  you,  hold  him  ;  he  is  mad. 

Lady  G.    0  gentlemen  —  good  gentlemen  — 

Hope.    Mad  for  your  bleeding  I 

Foam.  La !  be  quiet,  do  ! 

Marks.    Peace,  or  I  '11  trounce  you  ! 

Hope.  Dost  thou  second  him, 

Thou  thing  of  measures,  and  plague-bearing  rags  ? 
Eeceive  thy  wages  !  [Strikes  MARKS.     All  draw.] 

Lady  G.  Murder  !  murder !  murder  ! 

Pol.    Murder  !     I  'm  slain  ! 

Foam.  And  I ! 

(Enter  RUFFLER  and  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Huffier.  Keep  the  king's  peace  ! 

Hope.     (Rushing  at  RUFFLER.)    Presuming    toadstool, 
die  !  [GOLDSTRAW  strikes  up  his  sword.] 

Goldstraw.  Stand  back  !  you  know  me. 

Hope.    But  I  regard  you  not. 

Euf.  Ha  !  dogs,  you  snarl, 

You  show  your  teeth,  you  bite,  before  a  lady  1 

Lady  G.    Marry  !  that  they  do,  sir,  and  little  else. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  15T 

Euf.    Are   these   your  manners  ?     This  the  high 

respect 

A  man  should  show  before  yon  paragon 
Of  beauty,  sweetness,  and  accomplished  worth  ? 
Now,  as  I  live,  my  heart  takes  fire  indeed 
At  the  bare  thought,  and  I  would  make  you  dance 
To  the  harsh  music  of  this  rapier  !  — 

Lady  O.    No  more  —  if  you  do  love  me. 

Euf.  Love  you,  sweet  I 

See,  one  soft  word  has  saved  you.     Vanish,  then! 
I  banish  you  her  presence,  one  and  all, 
Until  our  wedding-day. 

Hope.  Man,  dost  thou  think 

Thy  clamor  scares  us  ? 

Pol.  Poh,  poh  !  soldiers,  gull, 

Afraid  of  words  !     In  Flanders,  'sdeath  !  the  French 
Said  ten  words  to  our  one. 

Marks.  Ha,  magpie,  ha ! 

You  'd  steal  our  lady's  gold  ! 

Foam.  La !  yes,  indeed. 

Marks.   We  '11  clip  you  close  enough. 

(Enter  TRAVEKS  and  DARKLY.) 

Euf.  Here  come  allies. 

Draw  out  your  battle  ;  for  I  have  resolved 
To  drive  you  out,  through  yonder  door,  like  thieves. 

(RuFFLER  and  his  friends  range  themselves  on  one  side  ;  the  suitors 
on  the  other.) 

Travers.   What  is  this  folly  ? 
Marks.  It  has  just  come  in, 

Along  with  you. 

Lady  G.  Entreat  them  to  desist 


158  THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

0  dear !  my  hair  has  gotten  all  awry  ; 

1  must  look  dreadfully.  [Aside."} 

Trav.  Nay,  gentlemen  — 

Marks.    Pish  !  draw  your  sword,  and  sheath  your 
tongue. 

Hope.  Ay,  slave, 

If  you  be  mortal,  we  will  find  it  out ! 

Darkly.    (Coming  between.)    Or,    peradventure,   if  I 
might  exhort  — 

Marks.    Out,  scarecrow  !  [DAKKLY  retreats.] 

Trav.  Taste  your  madness.  [Draws.] 

Pol.  Hold,  by  Mars ! 

This  looks  like  earnest.  (Aside.)  I  proclaim  a  truce. 

Hope.    Base-born  deserter  ! 

Marks.  Coward ! 

Foam.  La  !  and  I 

Have  no  idea  of  getting  my  clothes  spoiled. 

[Crosses  with  POLLEN  to  RUFFLER'S  party.] 

Pol.    Why,  sirs,  we  often  did  it,  down  in  Flanders, 
To  bury  up  the  dead.     A  truce  !  a  truce  ! 
A  soldier  asks  it.     Or,  if  you  will  fight, 
Throw  down  your  arms,  and  beg  for  quarter. 

Marks.  Hopeful, 

We  are  out-matched. 

Hope.  I  care  not,  I !     Come  on  ! 

The  world  shall  witness  how  a  bard  goes  off  I 

[Advances.] 

Gold.  This  mummery  has  gone  far  enough.  (Coming 

between.)   Be  still, 

Mad  poetaster  ;  and  you,  master  Marks, 
Off  to  your  counter,  or  I  '11  call  the  watch. 

Trav.   A  good  idea. 

Pol.  and  Foam.        Watch  !  watch  ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  159 

Marks.  We  will  submit 

To  Lady  Goldstraw  ;  but  the  best  of  you 
Shall  not  dictate  at  the  sword's  point  to  us. 

Hope.    Speak,  magnet  of  my  heart !    thy  slaves 

prepare 
To  do  thy  bidding. 

Lady  G.  Now,  I  really  like 

That  stranger's  counsel,  for  the  stranger's  sake. 

[Aside.] 

Begone  !  I  banish  you.     Yet,  not  to  kill 
Your  loving  spirits,  I  '11  mix  sweet  with  sour,  — 
Eeturn  again  upon  my  wedding-day. 

Marks.    Keep  up  your  spirits  :    I,  for  one,  have 

hope 

To  be  alive  to  see  your  funeral.  [Exit.} 

Lady  G.    Ungrateful  brute  ! 

Foam.  La !  so  do  I.          [Exit.] 

Lady  G.  Mean  fop  ! 

Pol.    Good-morning  to  your  paint !     In  faith,  I  'd 

take 
The  same  leave  of  your  face,  if  't  were  in  sight. 

[Exit.} 

Lady  G.    Ugh  !  slanderous  warrior ! 
Hope.  Madness,  madness,  madness ! 

A  thousand  hissing  vipers  gnaw  your  soul, 
The  nightmare  lie  beside  you,  and  may  dreams  — 
Grimmer  than  gorgons,  hydras,  and  the  like  — 
Forever  mind  you  of  lost  Thomas  Hopeful ! 
This  marvellous  world  to  me  is  black  as  soot !  [Exit.] 
Lady  G.    Loving,  but  vicious  ! 
Trav.  (Laughing.)  'T  was  a  fearful  scene  ! 

[Apart  to  GOLDSTKAW.] 


160  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Gold.    But  all  a  sham.     You  saw  the  cut-throats 

cool 
When  "  watch  "  was  cried. 

Trav.  Yet  Ruffler  swaggered  bravely. 

Gold.    Dear  aunt,  excuse  me.     This  fierce  gentle 
man, 

Who  saved  our  lives,  is  Lord  Guy  Ruffler  ;  famed 
For  gallant  deeds  done  in  the  field  of  Mars, 

And  Cupid's,  too.  [Introducing  them.] 

Lady  G.  My  service  to  your  lordship. 

Euf.    Nay,  nay ;  command  me,  madam. 

Gold.  Aunt,  my  friend, 

Sir  William  Travers. 

Lady  G.     (Apart  to  GOLDSTRAW.)    Are   they   both   at 
Court  ? 

Gold.    Yes,  both  in  office  ;  and  Lord  Ruffler,  aunt, 
Is  of  great  wealth,  and  greater  expectation. 

Lady  G.   He  seems  to  like  me. 

Gold.  Like  you  !  Ah  !  I  fear, 

'T  is  more  than  liking. 

Lady  G.  Pshaw,  you  foolish  boy  ! 

Well,  well,  I  cannot  see,  but  so  it  is, 
The  men  will  fancy  something  in  me  still. 
A  lonely  widow  ;  only  I  have  worn 
Better  than  most,  and  youth  yet  lingers  here 
With  some  small  show  of  charms. 

Gold.  I  never  saw 

Years  touch  one  lighter  ;  all  the  gayety 
Of  youth  is  yours,  without  youth's  rudeness,  madam. 

Lady  G.    0  fie  !  you  natter. 

Gold.  (Apart  to  RUFFLER.)  I  have  smoothed  your  way : 
Her  heart  is  open  now  to  all  mankind. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  161 

• 

Lady  G.  Lord  Ruffler. 

[GOLDSTRAW  and  TRAVERS  walk  up  the  stage.] 

Euf.  Madam. 

Lady  G.  You  are  from  the  Court. 

Euf.   'T  is  true,  my  lady. 

Lady  G.  Are  there  many  there 

Of  greater  beauty  than  our  city  belles  ? 

Euf.   You  jest. 

Lady  G.  How  then  ? 

Euf.    i  I  trust  you  know  the  worth 

Of  the  transcendent  beauty  stored  in  you  ; 
Your  glass  must  brighten  with  it  every  day. 
Those  eyes,  that  flash  upon  me,  are  not  blind, 
Or  heaven  belies  its  light. 

Lady  G.  0  dear !  my  lord, 

You  are  so  sudden  !     I  could  scarce  expect 
To  hear  such  words  at  once.     You  frighten  me.  — 
See  how  my  hand  is  shaking. 

Euf.    (Taking  her  hand.)  Precious  hand, 

That  trembles  at  my  lips ;  then,  at  my  lips, 
Tremble  forever.  [Kisses  it.] 

Lady  G.          0,  0,  let  me  go  ! 
'T  is  cruel  to  use  your  strength  ;  and  I  so  weak  ! 

Euf.    I  love  you  madly ! 

Lady  G.  Ah  !  you  fib,  you  do  — 

You  know  you  do  —  you  naughty,  naughty  lord  ! 

Euf.   By  those  bright  eyes  I  swear  —  and  by  that 

brow 

Of  Parian  whiteness  —  and  those  curving  lips 
That  match  and  rival  the  vermilion  dye 
Brought  from  Cathay  —  and  by  those  cheeks  that 

blush 
The  Persian  rose  to  paleness  —  by  this  hand, 

VOL.  n.  11 


162  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Which  now  I  hold,  and  never  will  release, 

I  swear  —  and  hear  me  Venus  and  young  Love  — 

To  win  a  title  that  shall  make  it  mine  ! 

Lady  G.  (Struggling.)    Indeed,  my  lord,  I  '11  call  for 

help,  I  will, 

If  you  presume  so.     You  are  crushing  me  — 
A  poor  weak  woman  —  0,  unhand  me,  0  ! 

Gold.  (Advancing.)  What  is  the  matter  ? 

[As  he  advances,  RUFFLER  releases  her. ~\ 

Lady  G.  Nothing,  goose,  —  begone  ! 

[GOLDSTRAW  retreats.] 

I  must  retire  a  while,  indeed  I  must. 
Stay,  if  you  will  —  I  cannot  help  it  —  stay  ; 
But  don't  expect  to  see  me.     Lack-a-day  ! 
The  fellow  's  squeezed  me  out  of  shape,  I  know. 

[Aside,  arranging  her  dress.] 

Ruf.    Shall  I  not  hope  ? 

Lady  G.  Hope  is  the  guest  of  all ; 

I  cannot  help  it  if  you  hope.     Adieu  I 
Sweet  ruffian  !  [Aside.    Exit.] 

(TRAVEBS  and  GOLDSTKAW  advance.) 

Euf.  Talk  of  wooing  girls,  forsooth  ! 

Hang  me,  if  aught  compares  with  wooing  widows. 
The  hopeful  ease,  the  careless  certainty,  — 
Ah  !  that 's  the  thing  to  whet  one's  heart  upon. 

Gold.    She  took  it  kindly  ? 

Euf.  "  Kindly !  "  that 's  no  word. 

But  I  am  trammelled  with  another  scrape. 

Trav.   How 's  that  ? 

Euf.  Why,  look  ye,  as  we  came  along, 

We  met  the  pretty  Madge,  and,  as  I  live, 
She  gave  me  that  same  stare. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  163 

Gold.  She  spoke  to  me. 

Euf.   Ay,  but  she  looked  at  me.     And  let  me  tell 

you  — 

^or  I  know  all  about  these  woman's  ways  — 
A  look  goes  further  with  them  in  a  day, 
And  means  more  too,  than  fifty  thousand  words. 

•Gold.   The  boundless  coxcomb  !     Madge,  too  ! 


Trav.  (Laughing.)  Ha,  ha  !     Guy, 

Keep  your  belief  ;  you  '11  need  it  by  and  by. 

Euf.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gold.  Pish  !  sirs  ;  let  us  go  in. 

I  have  a  cork  to  draw.  —  My  cousin  —  'sdeath  J  — 


A  jolly  bottle  of  an  ancient  house, 

Ice  to  the  lips,  but  fire  within  the  blood  ; 

A  liquid  joy,  that,  in  its  native  grape, 

Basked  a  whole  summer  through  in  old  Provence, 

And  rolled  its  pulpy  fatness  in  the  sun, 

And  caught  the  spirit  of  the  Troubadour, 

To  kindle  song  amid  our  colder  age  ! 

Euf.   Come,  Travers,  come,  and  crack  the  bottle. 

Ugh! 

This  ancient  love-making  is  somewhat  dusty  : 
I  'm  dried  up  to  a  cinder  with  my  flames. 
Where  is  the  wine,  Hal  ?     Quick,  my  throat  's  afire  ! 

[Exeunt.  ] 


164  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.      A  Room  in  LADY  GOLDSTKAW'S  House.      Enter 
MADGE  and  GOLDSTRAW. 

Goldstraw.    MADGE,  can  you  keep  a  secret  ? 

Madge.  Hal,  it  seems 

You  cannot  keep  the  one  upon  your  lips. 

Gold.    But  it  concerns  you. 

Madge.  Do  I  look  concerned  ? 

Gold.    Am  I  a  fool,  that  you  should  answer  thus  ? 

Madge.    Am  I  town-crier,  that  you  should  fear  to 

tell 

This  secret  which  will  burst  you,  if  you  hold 
A  moment  longer  ? 

Gold.  Now,  by  Midas'  ears, 

I  will  not  trust  you  ! 

Madge.  Well,  well ;  I  'm  content. 

Gold.    No,  you  are  not. 

Madge.  Indeed ! 

Gold.  You  're  mad  to  hear. 

Madge.   And  you  to  tell.     Ah !  cousin  Hal,  you 

men 

Call  woman  curious  ;  but  it  would  not  be, 
If  you  wise  mortals  did  not,  from  our  births, 
Feed  us  on  secrets.     First,  you  tell  your  sins, 
Then  slander  us  for  knowing  them.     Now,  I 
Have  a  great  secret,  that,  when  yours  is  out, 
I  '11  give  unasked. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  165 

Gold.  A  secret !  pray,  what  is  it  ? 

That  Lady  Picture  paints  ?  —  Miss  Wiggins'  hair 
Grows  on  her  French  maid's  head  ?  —  Miss  Cripple's 

limp 

Accounts  for  the  high  price  of  cork  this  year  ?  — 
That  Mistress  Flimsy's  death  was  hastened  on 
By  swallowing  her  set  of  brilliant  teeth, 
The  day  she  heard  Lord  Faithless  jilted  her 
For  Lady  Lucre  ?     For  poor  Flimsy's  maid 
Told  Lady  Pop's,  your  cousin's  maid,  who  told 
Nick  Prior,  your  mother's  footman,  who  told  Maud, 
Your    chambermaid,    who    told    your    seamstress, 

Blanche, 

Who  told  your  Dutch  mirse,  who  unguardedly 
Dropped  it  to  Dolly  Flare  —  et  cetera. 
Why,  Madge,  a  secret,  such  as  you  would  tell, 
Has  such  a  pedigree,  before  you  reach 
The  thing  itself,  as  an  old  Hebrew  king : 
I  'd  go  to  sleep  before  you  came  to  it. 

Madge.   Ho!  ho!     [Yawning.)     There  is  a  shame* 

ful  saying,  Hal, 

That  fools  and  women  talk  with  many  words. 
Now,  you  are  not  a  woman  — 

Gold.  Then,  a  fool. 

Madge.    A  frank  confession. 

Gold.  Madge. — 

Madge.  Hal  ? 

Gold.  Madge.  — 

Madge.  Hal,  again : 

What  would  you  ? 

Gold.  Of  this  secret  ?  — 

Madge.  What,  of  yours? 


166  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Gold.   Well,  then,  of  mine.     Lord  Guy,  Travers, 

and  I, 
Have  formed  a  plan  to  cure  your  mother's  whims.  — 

Madge.    How,  all  ?     And  she  a  woman  ! 

Gold.  No  ;  the  whim 

Of  second  marriage,  with  the  ill  it  brings 
To  your  repose. 

Madge.  0,  take  no  thought  for  me  : 

My  secret  will  release  you. 

Gold.  'Sdeath  !  you  wasp, 

What  is.it  ? 

Madge.     Finish  yours. 

Gold.  Thus  far  I  will. 

Make  no  real  opposition  to  our  plot ; 
Flatter  Lord  Ruffler,  treat  Sir  William  well ; 
And  be  instructed,  as  we  go  along, 
Either  by  them  or  me.     Will  you  consent  ? 

Madge.    Is  there  no  malice  in  it,  no  true  grief, 
Intended  towards  my  mother  ?     For,  remember, 
Were  all  her  fancies  multiplied  by  ten, 
She  is  my  mother  still ;  nor  do  her  ways  — 
Strange  though  they  be,  and  open  to  rebuke  — 
Sever  the  bond  between  us. 

Gold.  Madge,  I  swear, 

A  fortnight  hence  she  '11  thank  us  for  her  cure, 
And  vow  the  bitter  medicine  was  sweet 
Wherewith  we  drugged  her.    Have  you  faith  in  me  ? 

Madge.    Some  little,  Hal.     But  work  your  own 

designs  ; 

Bring  me  as  seldom  in  them  as  you  can ; 
I  will  not  thwart  you. 

Gold.  And  your  secret,  now  ? 

Madge.    Am  I  of  age  to  marry  ? 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  161 

Gold.  You?  poh!  poh!. 

A  very  child. 

Madge.         And  so  my  mother  thinks. 

Gold.   Why,    then    I  '11    swear  —  for    she    ne'er 

thought  aright  — 

You  're  old  enought  to  be  Methuselah's  wife, 
On  his  last  birth-day  !     How  old  are  you,  Madge  ? 

Madge.    Twenty. 

Gold.  A  fib ! 

Madge.  Too  true !  [Sighs.] 

Gold.  'Sdeath,  and  you  sigh  ! 

What's  twenty? 

Madge.  'T  is  twice  ten  ;  but  double  that. 

I  have  lived  twenty  years  a  lonely  maid  ; 
I  might  live  twenty  more  ;  or  die  between, 
Like  a  good  purpose  that  neglects  its'  time, 
And  dies  for  want  of  action.     Tell  me,  Hal, 
How  do  you  like  Sir  William  Travers  ? 

Gold.  Well : 

A  noble  fellow  ;  all  that 's  good  in  man 
Finds  lodging  with  him. 

Madge.  Lodges  there,  and  sleeps  ? 

Gold.    No,  no  ;  enacts  a  royal  part,  and  fills 
Its  fair  abode  with  splendor. 

Madge.  Say  you  so  ? 

Gold.    Of  course  ;  who  could  say  less  ? 

Madge.  I  'm  glad  of  it. 

Gold.    And  why  ? 

Madge.  He  has  proposed  to  me.  — 

Gold.  He!  he! 

The  man 's  a  fool  —  a  stark,  rank,  raving  fool ! 


168  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Madge.   Thank  you,  sweet  sir !     You  're  pleased 

to  flatter  me. 
A  fool  to  wed  me  ! 

Gold.  Yes,  a  very  fool : 

There  is  a  spice  of  folly  in  us  all. 
You  are  not  suited  for  each  other.  —  No  ; 
Neither  in  rank,  tastes,  fortune,  friends,  nor  aught 
That  makes  a  marriage  proper.     What,  good  goose, 
Would  you  wed  him  ? 

Madge.  I  thought  of  it. 

Gold.  0,  pah ! 

He  is  too  wise  for  you  —  and  knows  it  well ; 
He  is  most  absolute  and  settled  down 
In  his  opinion  of  his  intellect. 
Why,  Madge,  he  holds  such  mortals  as  ourselves 
As  little  better  than  born  naturals  ;  — 
Things  to  be  driven,  here  and  there,  at  will, 
Like  shuttlecocks. 

Madge.  Then  he 's  too  good  for  me  ?  — 

More  flattery  ! 

Gold.  Zounds  !  no  ;  he  's  not  too  good  — 

Who  is?  —  but  then — but  then  —  damn  it!  — 

Madge.  You  swore  ! 

Gold.   Now,  Madge,   I    tell    you  —  you   are   not 

quite  mad  — 

If  you  intend  to  wed,  choose  some  mere  man, 
A  fellow  like  myself,  perhaps  ;  and  love  him  — 
Love    him   with    your  whole    heart  —  because    he 

needs  it. 

Don't  take  an  intellect,  a  thought-machine, 
To  look  up  to,  and  worship.     Zounds  !  I  'm  mad  ; 
And  you  're  both  fools  !  [Walks  about  passionately.} 

Dear  Harry,  so  I  would  ; 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  169 

I  like  your  counsel,  you  are  very  wise  ; 

But  no  mere  man,  like  you,  affords  the  chance. 

I  'd  love  a  man,  like  you,  with  all  my  heart, 

If  one,  like  you,  like  you  would  counsel  me  ; 

And  teach,  like  you,  this  poor  heart  to  confess 

How  it  could  love  a  man,  like  you,  indeed. 

Ah,  me !  [Weeps.'] 

Gold.  What  is  the  matter,  Madge — sweet  Madge  ? 

[Takes  her  hand.] 

Look  up  ;  you  shall  not  wed  this  Travers,  dear : 
No  one  shall  force  you,  dearest,  dearest  Madge  ;  — 

[Embraces  her. ~\ 
By  heaven,  they  shall  not!  my  adored  one,  my  — 

[Sinks  on  his  knee.~\ 
By  all  the  saints,  I  do  believe  I  love  her  I 

Madge.   Ha !  ha !  ha !  [Laughing.'} 

Gold.  Out,  you  witch  !      [Starts  up.] 

Madge.  You  really  love  me  ? 

Gold.    Yes  ;  the  thing  is  out ;  I  '11  put  the  best  face 
That  I  can  upon  it. 

Madge.  No  ;  you  half  hate  me. 

Gold.   And  if  I  do- 

Madge.  No  oaths.     You  love  me  too 

Nearly  enough  to  take  compassion  on  me, 
And  marry  me  yourself? 

Gold.  Indeed,  I  do. 

Madge.    Yet  you  were  rather  late  to  find  it  out. 

Gold.    True,    true :    but    't  was    a    thing   forever 

mine  ; 

So  much  a  part  of  me,  I  never  thought 
Upon  it,  as  we  do  on  outward  things : 
As  one  may  have  a  leg,  an  arm,  an  eye, 
And  use  it  daily,  without  daily  saying, 


170  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

This  is  my  leg,  or  arm,  or  eye  ;  and  this 
Is  its  true  function,  and  just  so  it  works. 

Madge.    Too  plain  to  see,  too  present  to  fear  loss, 
Till  loss  was  threatened :  I  can  understand. 
But,  Hal- 

Gold.     Dear  Madge. 

Madge.  You  spoke  ? 

Gold.  No  ;  you. 

Madge.  Well,  then  — 

Gold.    Why,  true  - 

[Embraces,  and  is  about  to  kiss  her,  as  DARKLY  enters.] 

Darkly.      (Groaning.)      0!    0!  — 

Gold.    'Ods  blood !     Ha  !  Darkly,  ha  !     [Laughing.] 
My  cousin,  sir  —  I  say  my  cousin,  sir  — 
My  aunt's  true  daughter  —  by  some  accident, 
Got  something  in  her  eye. 

Dark.  I  do  perceive 

The  maid  hath  something  in  her  eye,  forsooth, 
Even  at  this  distance.     And  perchance  her  eyes  — 
Being  thy  cousin's  —  do  lie  round  about, 
Even  in  the  girdle  that  confines  her  garb. 

Gold.    (Jerking  away  his  hand.)    Ha  !  ha !  my  hand  ?  — 

0,  yes  —  I  put  it  there  — 
Only  to  steady  her. 

Dark.  Ah,  me  !     I  've  heard 

The  sufferer  this  wise  must  be  steadied.* 
Hast  thou  removed  the  mote  ?     0,  neighbor  Gold- 
straw, 

First  cast  the  beam  out  of  thine  own  !     A  beam 
Tempting  to  damsels,  called  by  the  profane 
Men  of  Charles  Stuart,  the  love-light  —  woe  is  me  ! 

Gold.    You  sanctimonious  sharper,  blab  one  word; 
And  I  will  flay  you ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  171 

Dark.  Ah  !  the  wrath  of  love  ! 

Some  mouths  are  closed  with  promises,  and  some 
Are  sealed  with  gold,  and  other  some  — 

[GOLDSTKAW  puts  a  purse  into  his  hand."] 

Gold.  Ha!  shut? 

What  have  you  seen  ? 

Dark.  Naught. 

Gold.  Liar !  did  you  not 

See  Harry  Goldstraw  kiss  his  cousin's  cheek  ? 

Dark.    Nay,  verily. 

Gold.  False  slave,  what  know  you,  then  ? 

Dark.    Naught  that  concerns  them. 

Gold.  Well  said  !     Madge,  I  play 

Lord  Burner's  part,  his  master.     Mark  me  now ; 
I  '11  put  him  to  the  most  extreme  ordeal. 
Patch-text,  you  canter,  you  —  you  hobbling  knave, 
There  's  something  in  you,  and  I  '11  rip  it  out ! 
Speak,  or  I  '11  murder  you  ! 

Dark.  And  shall  I  speak 

The  things  that  are  of  false  Beelzebub  ? 
Coin  cunning  lies,  to  please  thee  ?     0,  alas  ! 

Gold.    Talk,  you   psalm-singing  villain  —  talk,  I 

say  — 
Or  you  and  life  shall  not  get  off  together ! 

[Beats  him.'] 

Dark.    0  !  0  !  my  death  draws  on.     Deliverance 
Is  opening  to  the  martyr  !     0  !    0  !    01 

Gold.   I   am  quite  blown.     My  faith  is  strength 
ened,  brother, 

By  thy  endurance.     For  each  day  you  keep 
My  secret,  I  will  give  you  half  a  pound  ; 
If  you  betray  me,  a  whole  pounding  waits, 
To  which  this  was  but  shadow. 


172  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Dark.  Verily 

Man  cannot  serve  two  masters.     If  I  take 
Thy  golden  lucre,  I  am  bound  to  thee, 
Even  at  thy  chariot- wheel. 

Gold.  Enough,  begone ! 

Dark.    Master   and   damsel,  peace   be   with   you 
both !  [Exit.] 

Madge.    Will  he  betray  us  ? 

Gold.  While  the  money  lasts, 

No  fear.     A  soul  more  sordid  never  skulked  in  man. 

Madge.    Hark,  some  one  comes.     Your  friends. 

Gold.  Fly,  love  !     But,  Madge, 

Think  of  the  plot.     And,  Madge  — 

Madge.  Quick,  hurry,  then. 

Gold.   Remember  me. 

Madge.  I  feared  you  meant  to  kiss  me. 

Gold.   Well  feared! 

[Attempts  to  kiss  her,  she  slips  past  him.'} 

Madge.  Well  gone !  [Exit.] 

(Enter  RUFFLER  and  TRAVERS.) 

Buffler.  See  little  Madge  there,  see  ! 

She  's  always  dogging  me. 

Tracers.  Poor  dog ! 

Ruf.  'Sdeath  !  Hal, 

Your  aunt  is  all  one  glow.     It  puzzles  me 
To  keep  her  in  the  bounds  of  prudence.     I 
Should  be  your  uncle,  without  aid  of  priest, 
If  I  allowed  her  ardor  to  have  way. 
The  waiting-maid,  who  boxed  my  ears  for  yours, 
Is  gentler  grown  to-day,  I  warrant  you. 
I  must  say  nothing  ;  but  you  '11  see,  you  '11  see.  — 
Lord  !  what  a  pliant  thing  a  woman  is  1 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  173 

Gold.    Poor  Doll !    You  have  not  wronged  her  ? 

Euf.  "  Wronged  her !  "  phew  ! 

I  pleased  her  well  enough.     Say  nothing,  Hal : 
You  '11  cross  my  suit  else.     Here  iny  widow  comes. 
Stand  by,  and  see  me  woo  her. 

Gold.    (Apart  to  TRAVEBS.)     0  !  that  man  ! 
He  has  more  antics  than  a  tutored  ape. 

[Exit  with TRAVEES.] 

(Enter  LADY  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Euf.   My  life! 

Lady  Goldstraw.    Heigh  ho  ! 

Ruf.  Star  of  my  destiny, 

Where  have  you  hidden,  while  my  moments  ran 
To  dross  and  blackness  ?     I  have  heavy  news  ; 
Doleful  to  you,  perchance,  and  to  poor  me 
Darker  than  cloudy  midnight. 

Lady  G.  Marry,  now ! 

Cheer  up,  my  lord  !  hold  up  your  lordly  head  ! 
Let  me,  my  lord,  like  a  bright  star,  essay 
To  struggle  through  your  lordship's  gloomy  dumps. 

Ruf.    She  stole  that  speech  from  Hopeful.    (Aside.) 

Woe  is  me ! 

Ruin,  destruction,  horror,  blood,  and  death, 
Stare  in  my  face,  and  beckon  me  away  ! 
Yet  you,  you,  author  of  my  joy  and  grief, 
Lull  me  to  rest  with  dulcet  melody  ! 

Lady  G.   The  Lord  'a  mercy  !  noble  gentleman, 
What  irks  your  lordship  ? 

Ruf.  My  father,  lady, 

The  proud  and  cruel  Earl  of  fifty  towns, 
Some  villages,  and  miles  of  fruitful  land, 
Hearing  his  heir  in  thy  sweet  thraldom  lived, 


174  THE    WIDOW'S   MARRIAGE. 

Sends  here  a  messenger  of  trusty  faith, — 

John  Rook,  his  butler,  —  with  this  dread  command  : 

"  Either  give  up  your  courtship  of  the  fair 

And  much-respected  Lady  Goldstraw,  son, 

Or  wed  her  instantly,  upon  the  pain 

Of  my  displeasure."     Now,  I  knowing  well 

Thy  cruelty  —  for  all  beauties  must  be  cruel  — 

Droop  in  my  spirits,  and  prepare  to  die. 

Lady   G.   Poor  soul !    and  will  you  die  outright, 

indeed  ? 
I  am  no  crueller  than  the  rest,  my  lord. 

Euf.   You  find  me  choosing  out  my  means  of  death. 
Whether  to  throw  me  from  some  rocky  height 
Into  a  den  of  wolves  ;  or  watch  my  chance 
For  sharks  and  porpoises,  to  boldly  plunge 
Into  their  hungry  maws  ;  or  by  some  drug ; 
Or  by  the  ignominious  cord ;  or, 
Snatching  at  once  the  nearest  means  of  death, 
With  this  fell  rapier  —  [Offers  to  stab  himself.} 

Lady  G.  0  !  0  !  help,  help,  help  ! 

Think  of  the  carpet  —  I  will  marry  you  — 
My  best  new  Turkey-carpet ! 

Buf.  Angel,  speak ! 

Has  Turkey's  loom  embroidered  life  for  me  ? 
And  wilt  thou  wed  me  ? 

Lady   G.  Spare  my  modesty. 

Buf.    But  when  ? 

Lady  G.  0,  la  ! 

Buf.  Now,  lady ;  or  the  stars 

Shall  say  —  we  rose  upon  his  bloody  corpse  ! 

[He  coughs."] 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  175 

(Enter  DARKLY.) 

Here  is  my  chaplain,  —  a  grim,  worthy  man, 
Of  dismal  piety,  and  awful  hopes. 

Darkly.    0  !  0  ! 

Buf.  To  him  let  us  confide  ourselves. 

Then  I  in  triumph,  with  the  morrow's  sun, 
Will  bear  thee  to  my  father's  gorgeous  halls  ; 
Saying,  "  Great  Earl,  behold  my  beauteous  bride  I  " 

Lady  G.    How  prettily  you  talk,  my  lord !  So  you 
One  day  will  be  an  earl,  and  I  — 

Buf.  A  countess  ! 

To  show  how  small  a  thing  a  title  is, 
Laid  on  thy  natural  majesty. 

(Enter  TRAVEHS,  GOLDSTBAW,  and  MADGE.) 

Behold, 
My  plighted  bride  !  (Presenting  LADY  GOLDSTBAW.) 

Madge.  What,  mother  — 

Lady  G.  Silence,  child  ! 

Goldstraw.    You  will  not,  aunt  — 

Lady  G.  Will  not !  and  why  ? 

Madge.  0,  shame  I 

Lady  G.    Hush,  or  I  '11  wring  your  ears  ! 

(Apart  to  MADGE.) 

Gold.  Pray  hear  me,  madam. 

Lady  G.    Send  welcome  words,  or  none. 

Travers.  And  you,  my  lord, 

Heir  to  an  earldom,  run  your  noble  blood 
Into  a  puddle  ! 

Buf.  Puddle  her  again, 

And  at  the  word  you  die  I 

Gold.  It  shall  not  be : 

0,  aunt ! — 


176  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Madge.        0,  mother ! 

[Tliey  lay  hold  on  LADY  GOLDSTRAW.] 

Trav.  Base,  degenerate  lord, 

By  Jove,  you  shall  not  !  [Seizes  HUFFIER.] 

Euf.  And  by  Mars,  I  will ! 

Dark.    0  !  the  blasphemers  !  [  Groans.] 

Euf.  (Breaking /rom  TRAVERS.)  What,  am  I  betrayed  — 
Made  over  like  a  pawn  —  my  love  enslaved  1 
Come  forth,  my  faithful  steel,  and  show  the  world 
How  freedom  brightens  in  thy  awful  glare  !  [Draws.] 
Scum  of  the  earth,  release  my  love  and  me, 
Or  I  will  pave  a  highway  with  your  hearts, 
Though  you  were  giants  leagued  with  amazons ! 
Off,  Travers  !  —  Follow,  Darkly  !  —  Stand  aside  ! 
My  sword  shall  be  my  groomsman,  and  grim  death 
My  only  guest  and  witness  ;  dying  groans 
Shall  be  my  marriage-bells,  and  thou  my  bride  ! 
[  Seizes  LADY  GOLDSTRAW,  and  exit  ivith  her, followed  by  DARKLY.  ] 


THE    WIDOWS    MARRIAGE. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE   I.     JL  Boudoir  in  LADY  OOLDSTRAW'S  House.     Enter 
LADY  GOLDSTRAW. 

Lady    Goldstraw.    I   don't  half  like  it :    money, 

money,  money  — 

Nothing  but  money  ;  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  our  marriage-contract.     How  is  this  ? 
But  Lady  Ruffler  —  I  am  Lady  Ruffler  — 
Heir  to  an  earldom,  a  peer's  wife,  in  sooth. 
"  How  does  your  ladyship  ?  "  a  duchess  cries  : 
"  Ah  I  poorly,  thank  your  grace,"  I  say  ;  and  then 
Her  loose-tongued  highness  has  familiar  jokes 
About  the  ills  of  a  new- wedded  pair : 
Says,  "  Ruffler  should  be  pleased ;"  and  pinches  me — 
Yes,  faith,  I  feel  her  grace's  fingers  pinch  — 
The  gay,  bold,  wicked  duchess  !     Ah  !  dear  me  ! 
That  covers  much.     And  then  my  husband's  love  — 
The  brave,  young,  handsome  fellow  !  Poor,  poor  soul, 
He  loves  me  dearly ;  and  that  covers  more. 
What  are  a  thousand  pounds  or  so  ? 

(Enter  NICK.) 

Nick.  Your  grace, 

Your  most  imperious  ladyship  — 

Lady  G.  Fie  !  Nick, 

You  over-rank  me,  fie  !  Call  me  plain  Lady  — 
Plain  Lady  Ruffler. 

VOL.  II.  12 


118  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Nick.  Well,  plain  Lady  Ruffler  — 

Lady  O.    Presuming  knave  !  such  words  to  rank 

like  mine  1 

Have  you  no  proper  reverence,  impudent ! 
For  aristocracy,  and  birth,  and  titled  names  ? 
Have  we  not  been  the  pillars  of  this  land  ? 
What  would  you  do  without  us  ? 

Nick.  I  don't  know. 

We  do  all  your  work  now,  and  I  suppose, 
Mayhap,  we  'd  do  our  own  then.     What  would  you, 
Your  royal  highness,  do  without  us,  hey  ? 
Who  'd  dig  for  you,  who  'd  wait,  who  'd  till  your 

land  ?  - 

Who  'd  fight  your  battles,  die  in  flocks  for  you, 
And  give  you  all  the  praise,  and  gold,  and  rank, 
And  stars  and  garters,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
While  we  starve  on  forgotten  ?     Please  your  grace, 
I  heard  an  old  mechanic  say  all  that, 
Over  a  pot  of  porter. 

Lady  G.  How  now,  Nick  ? 

What,  will  you  murmur  ? 

Nick.  No  ;  you  see  I  don't. 

When  we  begin  to  murmur,  then  look  out 
For  thrones,  and  crowns,  and  things  !     Your  gouty 

lords 

Will  feel  the  people's  broad,  rough,  hob-nailed  shoes 
Upon  their  toes. 

Lady  G.  Dear,  dear  !     Nick  Prior,  I  vow, 

If  you  frequent  that  odious  porter-house, 
I  '11  turn  you  out  of  doors. 

Nick.  Why,  true  enough, 

A  man  might  learn  in  better  places,  mam  ; 
But  we  will  learn  it  somewhere. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  179 

Lady  G.  What  brought  you  here  ? 

Nick.    A  flock  of  woodcocks.     0,  your  ladyship, 
There  is  a  crowd  of  fellows  at  the  door, 
With  bills  as  long  as  Lent,  to  see  my  lord.  — 
There  is  more  aristocracy  for  you  ! 
They  make  a  noise  too,  and  the  people  stop. 

Lady  G.    Admit  them,  then.     (Exit  NICK.)      I  sent 

that  Nick  to  school 

For  no  good  purpose.     So,  more  bills  to  pay, 
More  money  to  be  sunk  !     Has  my  lord  nothing  ? 

(E".ter  three  Tradesmen.) 

All  the  Tradesmen.     Please  your  ladyship  — 

Lady  G.  Well,  well ! 

First  Tradesman.  Hush,  I  '11  speak. 

Please,  mam,  the  others  sent  us  up,  to  see 
If  we  can  get  some  money  on  our  bills. 
Here  they  are,  mam.    ( Throws  downa  huge  bundle  of  bills.) 

Pay  all  alike,  or  none  : 
That 's  our  agreement. 

Lady  G.  Give  me  time  to  look. 

First  T.    For  certain,  madam  ;  but  we  hope  you  '11 

take 

A  shorter  time  to  look  than  we  have  had  : 
For,  please  you,  madam  — 

Lady  G.  You  have  said  enough. 

[Exeunt  Tradesmen.] 

"  For  furnishing  Miss  Polly  Trifle's  house,    [Reading.] 
Five  hundred  pounds  !     Ditto  for  furnishing 
Miss  Flaunt's  apartments,  seven  hundred  pounds  !  " 
Dear  me  !  and  all  within  six  months  —  the  monster ! 

[  Takes  up  another  bill."] 
"  One  brocade  tissue  silk,  for  Miss  "  — 


180  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

(Enter  HUFFLER,  beating  in  a  Servant.) 

Euffler.  Hey  !  slave, 

You  '11  open  doors,  you  will,  and  flood  my  house 
With  such  another  deluge  of  old  bills, 
To  vex  my  lady,  hey  1 

Servant.  Indeed,  my  lord  — 

Euf.    Indeed    your  lord  !    and  being   such,    I  '11 
trounce  you  !  [Beats  him.     Servant  cries.] 

Silence  your  bellowing,  calf!     Do  you  not  see 
Your  clamor  grieves  my  lady  ?     Stupid  dolt ! 
She  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  human  cry. 

Ser.   Then  spare  your  blows. 

Euf.  'T  is  not  my  blows  disturb  her, 

But  your  most  hideous  yells.     (Beats  him.)     Peace, 
slave  1 

Lady  G.  My  lord  — 

0,  dear  !  —  my  lord  ! 

Euf.  What  say  you,  sweet  ? 

Lady  G.  Forbear ; 

'T  was  not  his  fault ;  Nick  Prior  let  them  in. 

Euf.    Hah  !    call   Nick   Prior.     (  TO  Servant.)     I  '11 

make  him  twice  a  man  : 
I  '11  double  all  his  bones,  by  breaking  them. 

Lady  G.  Pray,  pray,  forgive  him  !    I  adopted  Nick, 
Sent  him  to  school,  and  made  a  fool  of  him : 
Besides,  I  ordered  him  to  bring  them  up. 
My  lord,  't  would  break  my  heart. 

Euf.  Enough,  my  love. 

Go,  sirrah  !  you  are  innocent,  it  seems. 
Receive  those  blows  but  as  a  specimen 
Of  what  I  can  do,  when  my  hand  is  in, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  181 

Not  a  genuine   flogging.     (Exit  Servant.)    Well,    my 

witch, 

It  seems  you  called  these  trading  devils  up ; 
I  pray  you,  lay  them. 

Lady  G.  What 's  the  gross  amount  ? 

Euf.    Some  thousands  —  ten  —  or  twelve  —  or  so. 

Lady  G.  Lord,  Lord  ! 

I  cannot  pay  it ;  it  would  ruin  me  : 
Let  them  take  half. 

Euf.  And  half  dishonor  me  ! 

Is  this  affection  ?     Is  this  woman's  love  ? 
Or  have  I  married  with  a  huckster  ? 

Lady  G.  La ! 

Well, .call  them  in.     But,  0  !  my  lord,  the  way, 
The  naughty  way,  in  which  you  made  these  bills  ! 

Euf.    Naughty  !  my  charities. 

Lady  G.  Five  hundred  pounds, 

To  stock  a  lady's  house,  for  charity  I 

Euf.    'Sdeath!    yes:  she'd   nothing  to  her  back, 

poor  thing, 
When  first  I  met  her. 

Lady  G.  Like  enough.     My  lord, 

I  '11  pay  this  once  ;  — but  no  more  charities. 

Euf.  Ho,  there  ! 

(Reenter  Tradesmen.) 

Lady    G.    (Writing.)     Here   is    an    order    on   my 

banker.  — 

My  money  in  the  funds  must  melt  for  this.       [Aside.] 

Make  it  go  far.  [Gives  a  paper.] 

Second     Tradesman.     (To  Ruffler.)     I'll    send    the 

velvet  gowns. 
Lady  G.    What  did  you  say  ? 


182  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Second  T.  My  lord  bespoke  some  gowne. 

Lady  G.   For  whom  ? 
Second  T.  A  lady. 

Lady  G,  Doubtless  !    When  ? 

Second  T.  To-day. 

Lady  G.    More  charities  ! 

Rvf.  Ay,  faith  !  she  's  hardly  clothed  ; 

There 's  scarce  a  rag  between  her  and  the  wind. 
Lady  G.    And  so  you  get  her  velvet  gowns,  'ods 

love !  — 
And  on  my  wedding-day  I 

Euf.  Tailor,  look  here. 

Make  me  a  pair  of  breeches. 

Second  T.  Yes,  my  lord.    [Goes  to  measure  him.] 

Euf.    Ass,  take   that!    (Cuffs him.)     They  are   not 

for  me. 

Second  T.  For  whom? 

Euf.    My  lady,  to  be  sure  :  and  here  's  the  price. 

[Throws  a  purse  at  him.] 

She  shall  have  breeches,  if  I  have  no  gowns. 
'Ods  blood !    she   needs   them.     Can   one   ride  the 

horse 

She  's  mounted  on  to-day,  with  decency, 
In  woman's  gear  ? 

Lady  G.  0  heaven  !  —  0  patience,  heaven ! 

[Aside.] 

Euf.    One  moment,  gentle  lady.    Look  you,  tailor : 

[To  Second  Tradesman.] 
I  want  a  taffeta  body-cloth  and  hood, 
Picked  here  and  there  with  gold  embroidery, 
For  Jennet,  my  gray  mare.     Upholsterer, 

[To  Third  Tradesman,] 
Provide  me  with  a  bed  of  eider  down, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  183 

Roomy  and  thick,  and  of  the  choicest  feather, 
For  Juno,  my  sick  spaniel.     Ay,  and,  tailor, 
Make  me  six  court-suits.     See  the  stuff  be  rich. 
Goldsmith,  you  '11  match  some  jewels  to  the  clothes  ; 

[To  First  Tradesman.'] 

A  casket  for  each  suit.     And  —  nay,  you  may  go  : 
I  have  a  thousand  wants  :  but  these  are  chief. 
Ah  !  goldsmith,  I  forgot  the  rapiers  ; 
A  rapier  for  each  suit ;  and  in  the  hilt 
Of  each  Toledo  see  you  place  a  gem, 
For  which  a  gentleman  may  not  be  shamed. 
And,  tailor  — 

Lady  G.     Nay,  my  lord,  I  '11  have  a  robe  — 

Ruf.    A  robe,  the  devil !     Will  you  ruin  me  ? 
How  shall  I  have  my  horse-clothes  and  my  bed, 
My  jewels  and  my  rapiers,  and  such  things, 
If  I  indulge  your  monstrous  luxury  ? 
Shame,  shame  !  be  modest. 

Lady  G.  Pray,  whose  money  buys 

Your  trumpery,  good  sir  ? 

Ruf.  Ours,  to  be  sure. 

Lady  G.    "  Ours  !  "  my  fine  lord  :  are  you  beside 

yourself  ? 

Am  I  to  go  worse  covered  than  your  horse  ? 
Get  me  a  taifeta  body-cloth  and  hood, 
To  match  your  Jennet's  ;  stand  me  in  her  stall ; 
Or  let  me  lie  beside  your  ailing  dog. 
'Ods  mercy  !  if  I  must  be  ruined  thus, 
I  claim  a  share,  above  your  jade  or^cur, 
In  the  destruction  of  my  own  estate  ! 

Ruf.   La!    now,   my  dear,   sweet,  gentle,  loving 

wife, 
Did  I  not  know  you  far  too  well,  I  'd  say 


184  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

That  you  are  really  in  a  passion,  chuck  ! 

[Pats  her  cheek  ] 

Lady  G.   Keep  off  your  hands  ! 

Ruf.  Why,  then,  hang  out  a  sign, 

Like  those  we  see  upon  the  new-made  doors, 
"  Beware  the  paint !  " 

Lady  G.  Savage  !  insult  your  wife 

Before  the  faces  of  these  vulgar  knaves  ! 

Ruf.    Insult  you,  love  !  because  I  would  preserve 
The  painful  labor  of  your  dressing-maid  ? 
Am  I  a  tasteless  Vandal  or  a  Hun, 
To  mar  so  delicate  a  work  of  art? 
'Ods  death  !  you  wrong  me  grievously,  sweet  wife. 

Lady  G.    Why  are  you  waiting,  tradesmen  ?     You 

are  paid.  [Exeunt  First  and  Third  Tradesmen."] 

And  you,  sir  goose  ?  [To  Second  Tradesman."] 

Second  T.  To  take  your  measure,  madam. 

Lady  G.    Ay,  for  the  robe. 

Ruf.  No  ;  for  the  breeches,  wife. 

Lady  G.    Out  of  my  house,  insulting  cur  ! 

Ruf.  AVhat,  love, 

Has  he  insulted  you  ?     Outrageous  patch, 
Here  in  her  husband's  presence  !     By  the  gods, 
I  '11  make  your  bones  ache  for  your  sinful  tongue  ! 
Will  you  not  stir  ?     So  then,  take  that,  and  that ! 

[Exit,  beating  him  out.] 

Lady  G.    0  !  what  a  temper,  what  a  tongue,  what 

arms, 

And  what  incessant  use  he  makes  of  them  ! 
Ha,  marry  !  and  the  breeches,  my  fair  lord  ; 
I  '11  make  you  wish  you  never  offered  them. 
I  '11  close  your  wasteful  courses  too,  sweet  sir ; 
Even  if  I  put  my  whole  estate  in  trust.  — 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  185 

(Enter  GOLDSTRAW  and  MADGE,  sorrowfully.) 

Well,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Madge.  My  new  father,  mother  I 

Goldstraw.   And  my  new  uncle,  aunt ! 
Lady  G.  But  how  is  this  ? 

Are  these  sad  eyes  the  welcome  that  you  give  ? 

Gold.  Ah !  aunt,  your  bride-bells  should  have  tolled 

a  knell ; 
Your  Mends,  in  crape,  should  have  walked,  two  by 

two, 

Behind  the  hearse  that  drew  you  to  the  church  ; 
The  priest,  in  black,  have  read  the  burial-rites ; 
And  when  't  was  over,  better  far  for  you 
If  you  had  leaped  into  your  grave  alive  ! 

Lady  G.    To  spoil  your  fancies,  I  was  wed  at  home. 
Poh,  poh  !  you  prate. 

Gold.  Dear  madam,  have  you  heard  ?  — 

Lady  G.    Of  what  ? 

Gold.  Of  Ruffler  ? 

Lady  G.  Give  his  title,  sir. 

Gold.   Ay,  when  he  gets  it. 

Lady  G.  When  he  gets  it ! 

Gold.  Yes, 

Along  with  his  estate. 

Lady  G.  You  called  him  rich. 

But  that  is  nothing,  —  I  've  enough  for  both. 

Gold.   If  he  could  cheat  you,  how  might  I  escape  ? 

Lady  G.   Where  are  his  father's  lands  ? 

Gold.  In  chancery: 

And  his  petition  for  the  earldom,  too, 
Is  laid  upon  the  table  of  the  Lords, 
Session  by  session,  with  a  general  laugh. 

Lady  G.    A  swindler,  eh  ? 


186  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Gold.  Worse,  madam,  worse,  I  Tear  : 

A  noted  rake,  a  ruined  gamester,  aunt  — 
A  common  drunkard,  a  notorious  cheat  — 
A  murderous  bully,  thrice  tried  for  his  life, 
But  thrice  he  dodged  the  gallows. 

Lady  O.  Mercy  !  mercy  ! 

I  can't  believe  it. 

Gold.  Heaven  avert  the  time, 

When  you  may  be  compelled  ! 

Lady  G.    (Taking  his  arm.)    Your  arm,  I  pray. 
Harry  —  0  dear  !  —  you  see  I  'm  calm  enough. 
I  do  not  tremble,  do  I  ?     Has  my  cheek 
Lost  its  accustomed  color  ?     Look,  boy,  look  ! 
I  bear  me  as  a  lady.  —  Saints  above, 
I  shall  go  raving  mad  !  [Exit  with  GOLDSTEAW.] 

Madge.  I  cannot  laugh  ; 

Yet  I  suppose  I  should.     This  may  be  wit ; 
Yet,  to  my  poor  dull  brain,  it  seems  like  cruelty. 
Hal  has  my  word  to  keep  the  secret  too  : 
Would  I  had  pledged  it  to  that  Travers  !  — 

(Enter  TRAVERS.) 

Travers.    (Aside.)  Ha ! 

My  name  upon  her  lips  !   Fair  Madge,  you  're  caught, 
Caught  in  the  very  act. 

Madge.  Of  what,  sir  ? 

Trav.  Tut ! 

I  heard  my  name. 

Madge.  I  grant :  so  may  a  rogue, 

When  he  is  called  in  court. 

Trav.  How,  angry,  Madge  ? 

Madge.    0  I  no,  sir ;   pleased,  pleased  with  your 
pretty  tricks  — 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  18f 

Pleased  with  your  gambols  —  with  the  holiday 
You  three  stout  gentlemen  have  given  yourselves 
Over  a  poor  old  lady  ! 

Trau.  Say  the  word, 

And  I  will  end  it. 

Madge.  No  ;  't  is  well  perhaps, 

Just  punishment  perhaps,  if  men  have  right 
To  take  heaven's  functions,  and  rebuff  our  sins  ; 
Or  seize  the  church's  office,  and  patch  up 
Our  moral  rents  — mere  patchwork,  though,  for  all. 
Harry  persuaded  me  ;  he  may  be  right.  — 
I  would  I  were  a  hundred  leagues  away  ! 
I  '11  hide  myself ;  for  since  our  house  became 
A  moral  hospital,  sin  seems  so  rank  — 
In  doctors,  nurses,  patients,  and  spectators  — 
That  I  could  wish  a  plague  were  on  us  all, 
To  spot  our  skins,  and  let  our  hearts  alone. 

Trav.    'T  is  but  a  comedy. 

Madge.  So  you  design  ; 

But  Heaven  knows  how  't  will  end.    Man's  comedies 
Do  often  end  in  sobs,  and  tears,  and  blood. 

[He  takes  her  hand.] 

Let  go  my  hand,  sir  I     Till  your  play  be  o'er, 
The  best  among  this  feigning  company 
Shall  not  receive  it.  [Exit.] 

Trav.  She  is  worth  a  crown  ! 

Would  I  could  really  love  her !     But  this  love  — 
Pshaw  !  'tis  a  mere  infirmity,  a  toy 
Of  painted  candy,  that  tastes  well  enough 
Until  we  swallow  it ;  but,  then,  there  is 
No  rest  until  we  cast  it  up  again. 
Yet  for  all  that,  sweet  Madge,  I  '11  marry  you. 
Ah  me  1  I  wish  I  really  were  in  love  1  [Exit.] 


188  THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 


SCENE    H. 

Jin  Ante-Room  in  the  Same.     Servants  cross  the  stage,  carrying 
dishes,  wine,  Sfc.    Enter  DARKLY  and  DOLLY  FLARE. 

Darkly.    Lo  !  where  the  servants  of  iniquity 
Bear  carnal  meats  in  to  the  revellers  ! 

Dolly.    But,  Mr.  Darkly,  hear  me.     I  believe 
You  meant  no  harm  to  a  poor  orphan  girl, 
Yet,  0  1  you  've  done  one,  sir. 

Dark.  Avoid  thee,  woman  ! 

Why  dost  thou  still  pursue  me  with  thy  tongue, 
And  break  upon  my  meditations  thus  ? 
I  tell  thee,  as  a  servant  of  the  truth, 
I  know  not  what  thou  mean'st. 

Dol.  Then  listen,  sir. 

You  know  the  time  you  sought  me,  to  exhort 
And  drive  the  tempter  from  me  ?  — 

Dark.  Truly,  maid : 

And  it  befell  that,  waxing  strong  in  faith, 
I  was  caught  up  in  spirit,  and  abode 
Above  an  hour  entranced. 

Dol.  And  I,  too, 

I  was  caught  up  in  spirit. 

Dark.  Happy  soul ! 

And  when  I  woke,  I  found  thee  standing  by, 
Weeping  and  wailing  at  what  thou  didst  call 
Thy  "  loss  of  honor  ;  "  and  it  so  befell, 
The  night  being  dark,  thy  honor  being  but  small, 
We  could  not  find  it.     Although  I  arose, 
And  lit  a  taper,  and  did  search  the  room, 
Even  from  the  centre  to  the  ends  thereof. 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  189 

Dol.   It  is  not  possible  you  do  not  know 
My  meaning,  Mr.  Darkly  1 

Dark.  As  a  lamb, 

So  am  I  innocent  of  thy  intent. 
Unless,  perchance,  thy  so-called  honor  be 
A  bead,  a  trinket,  or  such  vanity, 
As  maids  delight  in. 

Dol.  Were  you  quite  entranced  ? 

Do  you  remember  nothing  ? 

Dark.  I  was  rapt 

Above  this  sublunaiy  sphere  ;  the  world 
Fell  from  me  like  a  garment ;  yea,  the  flesh 
Was  melted  in  the  spirit,  as  a  vessel 
Cast  in  amid  the  burning. 

Dol.  Then  I  '11  speak 

Eight  up  and  down.  — 

Dark.  Speak,  but  beware  the  wrath ! 

If  thou  dost  stain  my  hearing  with  such  talk 
As  enters  in  the  organs  of  the  vile, 
Lo  !  I  will  curse  thee  with  a  cleaving  curse  ! 
1 711  plunge  thee  quick  into  the  fiery  pit, 
Where  roaring  devils  broil,  and  hiss,  and  stew 
On  brimstone  embers  of  eternal  woe  !  — 
Where  groaning  Satan  stamps  his  cloven  foot, 
Lashes  his  barbed  tail,  and  howls  their  sins 
Into  the  splitting  ears  — 

Dol.     (Slopping  her  ears.)   0  stop,  sir,  stop  ! 
Indeed,  I  '11  hold  my  tongue  —  indeed,  I  will. 

Dark.    Thou  hast  been  biding  with  unholy  men. 
That  man  of  stripes,  that  pagan,  who  afflicts 
The  humble  servant,  hath  deluded  thee  — 
Yea,  even  Huffier,  whom  men  hail  a  lord. 
Therefore,  I  say  to  thee,  depart  with  him  ; 


190  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Dwell  in  his  tent ;  and  make  thy  habitation 
Among  his  handmaids.      For,  of  verity, 
That  which  man  breaketh,  let  him  also  mend. 
Go,  I  have  laid  commandment  on  thee,  go  ! 
And  if  he  scorn  thee,  hie  unto  his  wife, 
And  lay  thy  sorrows  down  before  her  feet : 
So  when  she  gives  taee  gold  and  silver  coin, 
Make  thou  return  to  me  ;  and  I  will  counsel 
What  pious  use  thy  money  may  go  to. 

Dot.   Is  that  your  best  advice  ? 

Dark.  Yea,  verily. 

(Enter  a  Servant,  with  a  dish.) 

Young  serving-man,  tarry  a  little  while. 

What  dost  thou  bear  ?  (Opens  the  dish.)  Strong  meats. 

Ah  me  !  ah  me ! 

A  beggar  waiteth  close  beside  the  porch ; 
His  need  is  greater  than  thy  lord's.     Go,  thou, 
And  stand  behind  thy  master,  where  he  sits  ; 
But  make  no  mention  of  this  silly  dish. 

[  Takes  the  dish.] 

And  if  he  asks  thee,  answer,  "  By  the  way 
I  slipped  and  stumbled."     For  I  say  to  thee, 
Much  evil  must  be  done,  that  good  may  come 

[Trips  up  the  Servant.] 

Damsel,  I  will  endure  thy  company.  [Exit  with  DOLLY.] 
Servant.  (Rising.)  Well,  that  must  be  a  very  pious 

man !  [Exit.] 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  191 

SCENE   III. 

Ji  Banquetiny-Room  in  the  Same.  A  table  spread  for  a  feast,  at 
which  are  seated  RUFFLER,  TRAVERS,  GOLDSTRAW,  POLLEN,  FOAM, 
HOPEFUL,  MARKS,  LADY  GOLDSTRAW,  MADGE,  and  other  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen.  Servants  in  waiting. 

Travers.  (Apart  to  RUFFLER.)  Go  to  it  boldly,  Ruffler. 

All  these  fellows 

Have  been  instructed  in  their  parts,  and  all 
Have  sworn  to  aid  you ;  some  inspired  by  fun, 
And  some  by  malice  or  revenge. 

Ruffler.  But,  Will, 

You  did  not  trust  them  with  my  plot  ? 

Trav.  0  no ; 

Their  natural  wickedness  was  spur  enough. 
They  volunteered  a  thousand  graceless  things 
More  than  I  asked.     Begin. 

Ruf.  Sirrah,  the  woodcock  ! 

First  Servant.    Please  you,  my  lord,  I  stumbled. 

Ruf.  Stumbled,  ha  !  — 

Take  that  !  [Throws  a  bottle  at  him.] 

Lady  Goldstraw.  My  lord  is  merry.  [To  the  company. ] 

First  S.  0,  my  head  ! 

Ruf.    Poor  soul,  he  's  hurt !     I  '11  heal  you,  Come, 
kneel  down.  [Servant  kneels."] 

Travers,  that  sauce.     Let  me  anoint  his  wound. 

[Pours  sauce  over  servant."] 

First  S.    0  Lord  !     I  'm  scalded ! 

Ruf.  Scalded  !  Quick,  some  wine  — 

'Ods  blood !  some  wine  !     He  '11  die  upon  my  hands. 

[Gives  a  bottle  of  wine."] 

Drink  all,  my  boy  ;  down  with  it,  every  drop  ; 
Or  I  '11  not  answer  for  you.  [Servant  drinks.] 


192  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Lady  G.  Joyous  heart ! 

The  very  life  of  company.     0  dear  ! 
The  man  is  surely  mad.  (Aside.)  Ha,  ha!  my  lord, 

[Laughing.] 
You  have  a  humor  of  your  own. 

Euf.  How,  wife, 

Do  I  enact  the  good  Samaritan, 
To  have  you  call  it  humor  ?     Now,  'ods  life  ! 
I  feel  a  virtuous  anger  at  your  scorn. 

Madge.   I  cannot  bear  this  ;  it  will  break  my  heart ! 

[Aside.     Exit.] 

Lady  G.    I  meant  no  scorn. 

Euf.  'Sdeath  !  do  you  answer  me  ? 

Lady  G.    I  'm  dumb,  my  lord. 

Euf.  This  Burgundy  is  sour  : 

Who  brought  it  in  ? 

Second  and  Third  Servants.  We  did,  my  lord. 

Euf.  Then  drink  it. 

[LADY  GOLDSTRAW  shakes  her  head  at  them.] 

What,  you  refuse  when  I  command  ?  [Starts  up."] 

Servants.  No,  no  ! 

We  '11  drink  it.  [They  drink."] 

Euf.  All ! 

Lady  E.  You  '11  make  them  drunk,  my  lord. 

Euf.    The  better,  love  ;  they  will  not  see  your 
state. 

Lady  G.   My  state ! 

Euf.  Ay,  madam,  your  unseemly  state. 

It  grieves  me  to  call  notice  to  a  sight 
Which  all  here  have  observed,  too  plainly,  madam. 
Pray,  ladies,  lead  her  to  her  room,  and  use 
Your  dearest  care  about  her.  [The  Ladies  rise.] 

Lady  G.  (Starting  up.)         Marry  !  queans, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  193 

Touch  me,  and  I  'II  be  even  with  your  eyes  ! 
You  base,  ungrateful  ruffian,  thus  to  lie  — 
Ay,  never  wince  —  to  lie,  to  lie,  to  lie  — 
Over  and  over  in  your  teeth  —  to  lie 
About  a  lady  !     The  Lord  Mayor,  my  husband  — 

Buf.   Hang  the  Lord  Mayor,  your  husband !  Never 

cast 

His  old  dry  bones  into  my  face  again  ! 
The  devil  has  him. 

Lady  G.  And  his  widow  too, 

I  fear.     0  gentlemen,  if  you  be  such, 
How  can  your  manhood  brook,  unmoved, 
This  villain's  insults  ? 

Goldstraw.  He  's  my  uncle,  aunt. 

Trav.    Your  husband,  madam. 

Pollen.  Captain  of  your  squad. 

Foam.   La !  yes. 

Marks.  And  guardian  of  your  property. 

Hopeful.  (Drunk.)  Ex-queen  of  my  affection  — 

Lady  G.  Silence,  cowards  ! 

I  will  not  learn  my  duty  from  your  lips, 
Pale-hearted  cravens !  — 

Servants.    (Drunk.     Sing.) 

The  devil  ;s  a  gentleman,  I  contend  — 
Tra,  ra,  la,  la  1  the  bottle  stands  — 

His  horn  's  his  beginning,  his  tail 's  his  end, 
And  his  — 

Lady  G.  Dare  ye,  dare  ye,  knaves, 

Sing  filthy  rhymes  before  your  mistress'  face  ? 
Out  of  the  house  —  out,  every  one  of  you  ! 

Euf.    Budge,  and  I  '11  skin  you  ! 

Hope.  (Drunk.)        Scorn  not  poesy  —  hie  ! 

VOL.  u.  13 


194  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Euf.   Well  said,  my  poet  I  Come,  a  song,  a  song ! 
We  '11  tame  her  temper  with  our  harmony. 

(Sinys,  passing  the  bottle.) 

Drag  it  round  the  table's  bound, 

By  the  glassy  muzzle. 
He  who*1  goes  in  ragged  clothes 

Has  a  mouth  to  guzzle. 

All   [Chorus.'} 

For  Rhenish  wine  is  fit  for  swine, 

So  is  wine  of  Landes  ; 
But  the  bowl  to  reach  the  soul 
Is  immortal  brandy ! 

Ruf.   [Sings.-] 

Drink  it  down  without  a  frown  ; 

When  we  cannot  tap  it, 
When  the  cup  we  can't  get  up, 
We  '11  duck  our  heads  and  lap  it. 

All.     [Chorus.'} 

For  Rhenish  wine  is  fit  for  swine, 

So  is  wine  of  Landes  ; 
But  the  bowl  to  reach  the  soul 
Is  immortal  brandy  ! 

Euf.   How  like  you  that  ? 

Lady  G.  Come,  ladies,  if  there  's  left 

One  grain  of  self-respect  among  you  all, 
And  leave  these  drunkards.  Husband,  ribald,  brute  I 
Tear  up  my  rooms,  break  all  my  furniture, 
Murder  my  servants,  set  the  house  afire  — 
Do  all  the  devilish  pranks  your  drunken  brain 
Can  stumble  over ;  but,  in  Heaven's  good  name, 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  195 

Drink  yourself  dead !     Never  come  out  of  this  — 

This  beastly  cloud  of  shame  and  infamy  — 

To  torture  me  with  your  gross,  odious  life  ! 

Die,  gorged  with  your  own  baseness  —  die,  and  rot ! 

And  I  will  bury  you,  and  kiss  your  body, 

Which,  living,  I  abhor !  [Exit  with  Ladies.] 

Euf.  Indeed  !      Ho,  ho  !    [Laughing.] 

All.    [Laughing,  sing.] 

For  Rhenish  wine  is  fit  for  swine, 

So  is  wine  of  Landes  ; 
But  the  bowl  to  reach  the  soul 

Is  immortal  brandy ! 

[The  curtain  falls,  amid  roars  of  drunken  laughter.] 


196  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     A   Room  in  LADY  GOLDSTRAW'S  house.     Enter 
LADY  GOLDSTKAW,  sadly. 

Lady   Goldstraw.    0  sorrow,  sorrow !     Was  there 

e'er  a  fool 

Before  my  time  —  an  old,  blind,  doting  fool  ? 
Off,  painted  face  —  off,  curls  —  off,  all  that 's  false  ! 

[Rubbing  her  face,  and  tearing  off  her  false  hair.] 
Henceforth  I  '11  make  my  age  my  guardian  : 
He  may  respect  a  thing  that 's  reverend, 
Even  in  me,  who  merit  no  respect. 
Ah  !  silly  vanity  of  womankind, 
What  an  example  may  you  see  in  me  ! 
Who  fought  with  nature,  struggling  to  put  off 
The  gentle  touches  of  her  slow  decay, 
Until  she  turned  upon  me,  in  her  wrath, 
And  gave  me  all  my  wishes.     A  young  lord 
Who  tears  my  peaceful  mansion  inside  out ; 
Squanders  ray  well-stored  wealth  on  revellers, 
Dogs,  horses,  wantons  ;  and  rewards  my  grief 
With  scorn,  and  mockery,  and  tempestuous  rage 
That  aims  too  plainly  at  my  hapless  life  ; 
But,  missing  that,  torments  me  with  cruel  wounds, 
Bleeding  from  all  but  mortal  parts.     Ah  me  ! 
Would  I  were  in  my  grave  !     But,  gentle  Madge, 
Left  to  the  care  of  this  wild  dissolute, 
What  were  thy  portion  ?     There  I  am  pulled  back, 
And  bound  to  life  again.     My  child,  my  child ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  19*1 

This  heart  awakens  from  a  long,  long  trance  ; 
And  throws  itself  upon  thee  with  a  love 
That  will  not  be  cast  off  except  in  death  !       [  Weeps.} 
(Enter  RUFFLER,  TRAVERS,  and  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Huffier.    What,  in  the  water,   drowning  in  your 

tears  ! 

How 's  this,  old  girl  ?     Why,  what  an  ancient  look 
You  have  to-day  !     Where  has  your  color  gone, 
Your  curls  and  gewgaws  ?     Now,  for  all  the  world, 
You  seem  like  some  old  ruin  that  has  stood 
A  thousand  years,  then  tumbled  all  at  once. 

Lady  G.    Scoff !  I  deserve  it. 

Travers.     (Apart  to  RUFFLER  and  GOLDSTHAW.)     Ha  !   the 
physic  works. 

JRllf.    Travers,  what 's  that  ?    (Pointing  to  the  false  hair 

upon  the  floor.)     Has  the  wool  come  to  life 
Within  the  carpet  ?  —  Does  it  grow  in  curls  ? 

[  Turning  it  over  with  his  sword.} 

Lady  G.    That  is  my  hair.  — 

Ruf.  No  !  by  the  Lord,  H  is  mine  : 

It  grows  upon  my  carpet. 

Lady  G.  Jesting  still  ! 

The  bloom  you  saw  upon  my  withered  cheeks 
Was  paint,  the  curls  around  my  sunken  brow 
Were  false,  and  there  they  lie,  never  to  rise. 
When  I  have  dressed  my  age  in  proper  guise, 
You  '11  see  more  changes  yet :  A  poor,  old  woman  ! 
I  shall  be  sixty-three  the  fourth  of  March. 

Goldstraw.   Her  age,  by  Jove  ! 

[Apart  to  RUFFLER  and  TRAVERS.] 

Ruf.  A  woman  tell  her  age  ! 

Here  's  a  good  symptom,  Travers.     Now  tell  me 
I  cannot  manage  women  !  [Apart  to  him.} 


198  THE   WIDOW'S   MARRIAGE. 

Trav.  So  I  do  : 

You  are  malignant  to  a  lady's  maid, 
But  harmless  to  her  mistress. 

Euf.  Envy,  envy ! 

There's    Madge.  —  But,   pshaw!      I'll    not   waste 
words  on  you. 

(Enter  DOLLY  FLARE,  weeping.) 

Dolly.    0,  mistress,  mistress  !  — 

Lady  G.  Well,  what  is  it,  child  ? 

Dol.    0,  mam,  your  husband  !  — 

Lady  G.  There  he  stands,  my  girl : 

He  '11  answer  you. 

Dol.  He  cannot ;  he 's  afraid 

To  look  his  victim  in  the  face. 

Lady  G.  What,  what  ? 

Do  I  hear  rightly  ?     How  is  this,  my  lord  ? 

Euf.    'Sdeath !    mind    your  private   ways,   mend 

your  own  sins, 

And  leave  me  to  myself !     What  right  have  you 
To  interfere  with  me  ? 

Lady  G.  The  right  I  claim 

Is  delegated  from  a  higher  power 
Than  earth  affords  —  the  right  of  every  one 
Who  lifts  a  voice  to  aid  the  sufferer. 

Euf.   Fine  talk,  fine  talk ! 

Lady  G.  You  turn  aside,  my  lord. 

Euf.    To  laugh. 

Lady  G.  You  dare  not  look  her  in  the  eyes  1 

Euf.    Here,  Doll,  come  here,  and  let  me  stare  at 
you.  [Takes  her  by  the  shoulders."] 

By  heaven  I  I  think  she  '11  blush  into  a  blaze, 
If  I  look  longer.     Dare  not  look  at  her ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  199 

'Ods  blood !  I  dare  do  more,  before  you,  too  ; 

[Kisses  DOLLY.] 
And  yet  I  never  wronged  her. 

Dol.  Don't  believe  him  ! 

Ruf.    Presuming  hussy,  do  you  say  to  me  — 
To  me,  remember,  who  can  fathom  you  — 
That  I  betrayed  you  ? 

Dol.  Yes,  I  do,  indeed. 

Euf.    Lord  love  the  women,  they  are  worse  than 
men  ! 

Trav.    Why,  Guy,  you  have  confessed  it ! 

Gold.  Yes,  to  us  ; 

Ay,  boasted  of  it. 

Euf.  Have  you  no  regard 

For  a  man's  feelings  ?     'Sblood !  there  stands  my 

wife. 

You  treacherous  villains,  do  you  counterplot  ? 
Carry  the  war  to  Africa  ? 

[Apart  to  TRAVEKS  and  GOLDSTRAW.] 

Lady  G.  A  shame 

Upon  your  falsehood ! 

Euf.    (To  DOLLY.)      Baggage,  leave  the  house  ! 
You  plot  against  me,  you  connive  with  rogues. 

Lady  G.    Come  with  me,  Dolly  ;  I  cannot  do  much, 
But  what  I  can  I  will.     This  last  is  worst : 
I  feared  and  hated  the  bold  debauchee, 
But  now  I  brave  you,  and  despise  you,  'sir  ! 

[Exit  with  DOLLY.] 

Ruf.    You  rascals ! 

Trav.  Why  ? 

Gold.  We  only  spoke  the  truth. 

Ruf.    Well,  well ;  but  out  of  time.    There's  Madge, 

too,  Madge  — 
Another  female  trouble  in  my  path. 


200  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE, 

Trav.    As  how  ? 

Euf.  The  old  complaint  —  love,  love. 

Trav.     (Laughing.)  Ha!   ha! 

I  '11  take  her  off  your  hands. 

Euf.  Take  her,  indeed  ! 

What,  you  cold,  bloodless  lizard,  take  my  Madge  — 
You  who  can  rail  at  love  a  June-day  through  ! 
You  icy  reptile,  if  you  had  my  blossom  — 
My  delicate  young  bud,  my  fragrant  Madge  — 
What  would  you  do  with  her  ?     Press  her  to  death 
Between  the  pages  of  some  monstrous  book, 
As  girls  do  flowers  ?     Parch  her  with  learning  ?    Or, 
With  a  vile  course  of  your  experiments, 
To  reach  the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart, 
Pull  her  poor  nature  all  to  pieces,  ha, 
As  country-maids  do,  leaf  by  leaf, 
The  flower  they  try  their  simple  fortunes  on  ? 
What  are  you  laughing  at  ? 

Trav.  At  you. 

Gold.     (Laughing.)  Ha!   ha! 

Euf.    And  you  ? 

Gold.  At  both  of  you. 

Euf.  A  merry  set. 

But  here   comes   Madge.      Observe   her,   how  she 

haunts  me : 

Yet  I  can't  help  it.     Do  you  blame  me,  sirs  ? 
If  girls  will  fall  in  love,  all  I  can  do 
Is  to  endure  with  my  best  modesty. 

Trav.    Of  course,  of  course  !  [Laughing.] 

Gold.    (Aside.)  Which  is  the  greater  fool, 

Mere  vanity  or  conscious  excellence  ? 
Here  are  two  coxcombs,  by  two  different  ways, 
Both  meeting  at  one  point,  and  both  astray. 


THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  201 

Ruf.    Withdraw,  withdraw !     I  wish  to  treat  my 
self 
To  a  small  dish  of  feminine  affection. 

Gold.    Heaven  speed  you,  king  of  hearts  ! 
Trav.  We  take  our  leave 

Of  your  imperial  highness  ;  yet  our  leave  leaves  you 
In  most  amusing  company  —  with  yourself. 

[Exit  with  GOLDSTBAW,  laughing.] 

(Enter  MADGE.) 

Madge.    Father. 

Ruf.  My  child.     Nay,  fear  me  not,  approach. 

What  would  you,  daughter  ? 

Madge.  A  strange  suit,  good  sir : 

Divorce  my  mother. 

Ruf.  If  you  '11  take  her  place. 

Madge.    How  can  I  answer  till  your  hand  be  free  ? 

Ruf.    I  bear  my  wife,  your  mother,  no  more  love 
Than  a  physician  bears  some  desperate  case 
Given  to  his  hands,  who  sees  but  the  disease, 
Not  the  poor  wretch  who  suffers  ;  upon  that 
I  spend  my  skill. 

Madge.  But  now  the  patient  mends. 

You  've   brought  her  to  plain   clothes,  and   simple 

talk, 

Clean  cheeks,  true  hair,  and  modest  carriage. 
I  pray  you,  give  her  to  my  nursing  hands, 
And  let  me  do  my  part. 

Ruf.  She  may  relapse. 

(Enter,  behind,  LADY  GOLDSTKAW.) 

Madge.    I  will  go  bail  for  that. 

Ruf.  Offer  your  bail. 

Madge.    My  lips. 


202  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Euf.  I  take  the  bail.        [Offers  to  kiss  her.] 

Madge.  Nay,  father,  father, 

You  push  paternal  privilege  too  far. 

Euf.    Unnatural  child,  my  heart  weeps  blood  for 

you! 

Give  me  the  bail,  and  in  another  hour 
She  shall  be  free  :  if  not  — 

Madge.  Well,  if  a  kiss  — 

A  formal,  legal  kiss  —  can  set  her  free  ; 
Here,  take  it.  [Offers  her  cheek.] 

Euf.  Now,  don't  flinch. 

[jUs  he  goes  to  kiss  her,  LADY  GOLDSTRAW  comes  between,  and  he 
kisses  her.] 

Ugh  !  Heaven  be  praised, 
I  took  you  for  the  devil ! 

Lady  Goldstraw.  Your  close  friend, 

And  therefore  kissed  me.     Madge,  my  love,  come, 
come. 

Madge.    But,  madam  — 

Euf.  Ay,  keep  faith  ;  the  bail 's  unpaid. 

Madge.    Can  I  not  kiss  my  father  —  only  once  ? 

Lady  G.    Not  if  that  kiss  unclosed  the  doors  of 

heaven, 

And  all  the  world  could  troop  in  after  you. 
0,  villain,  villain  !  [Apart  to  RUFFLER.] 

Euf.  Will  you  not  agree  ? 

Lady  G.    "  Agree  !  "  you  bold,  base  monster,  who 

would  stain 

The  only  pure  thing  that  is  left  to  me  !  — 
"  Agree  !  "  —  I  could  say  that  —  but,  no,  not  now; 
Not  in  the  hearing  of  my  child,  whose  ears 
Would  be  polluted  by  the  faintest  hint 
Of  your  most  virtuous  thought.     Begone,  begone  ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  203 

Out  of  the  world  !  you  sully  human  sin 
By  fouler  projects  than  belong  to  earth. 
Away  !  you  are  prepared  in  quality 
For  the  most  darksome  corner  of  the  pit. 
Away !  the  gates  will  gape  to  let  you  through. 

[Exit  with  MADQE.] 

Euf.    What  an  infernal  blast  she  blew  at  me  ! 
I  feel  quite  singed  by  her  sulphureous  breath  ; 
And  all  because  my  daughter  wants  a  kiss. 

(Enter  TKAVERS,  sorrowfully.) 

Why,  Will,  what  saddens  you  ? 

Tracers.  The  saddest  news  ; 

Matter  to  make  your  inky  locks  turn  gray. 
Ah  !  Ruffler,  when  you  planned  this  merry  jest, 
I  little  thought,  my  friend,  that  you  would  be 
Its  chiefest  victim. 

Euf.  Do  not  rack  me,  Will : 

Speak  out. 

Trav.     Well,    Darkly  —  Heaven    preserve    you, 
Guy!- 

Euf.   Will  Travers,  by  the  blessed  sun  above, 
I  '11  tear  you  into  tatters,  limb  by  limb, 
If  you  torment  me  ! 

Trav.  Then,  dear  Guy,  poor  Guy, 

Darkly  has  told  to  me,  in  confidence, 
That  he  has  taken  orders  as  a  priest, 
And  you  are  married,  absolutely,  Guy, 
To  Lady  Goldstraw. 

Euf.  Married  to  that  woman  !  — 

That  parchment  skin-full  of  old  rattling  bones  — • 
That  relic  of  past  ages  —  that  old  hag,  m 


204  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Who  rides  a  broomstick,  if  there  be  a  witch  — 
That  —  Hell !  0,  hell !     You  joke  with  me. 

Trav.  Alas  I 

If  I  were  only  jesting  ! 

Euf.  Blast  your  wits  ! 

Here 's  your  rare  plot ! 

Trav.  Yours. 

Euf.  No  ;  yours,  I  say  ! 

You  cut  the  whole  thing  out  from  first  to  last. 
I  would  be  whipped  if  such  a  bungling  job 
Called  me  its  father.     0,  my  luckless  fate  ! 
And  you,  you  botcher,  hope  you  to  escape  ? 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  you  eat  her,  paint  and  all ! 

Trav.   Had  I  the  stomach  !  — 

Euf.  'Sblood !  it  pleases  you : 

I  see  you  laughing.  —  Laugh  again,  fair  sir, 
And  you  shall  laugh  your  last ! 

Trav.  Poh  !  poh  !  you  're  hot. 

Euf.    Go  to  the  devil,  and  be  cooked,  I  pray, 
In  all  the  dishes  that  the  French  cook  veal  — 
You  most  egregious  calf  I 

Trav.  Fair  words,  my  friend ! 

Euf.   Foul  deeds,  my  foe  I 

Trav.  Well,  then. 

Euf.  And  nothing  more  ? 

Draw,  goose  !     I  '11  fray  your  feathers  —  draw,  thin- 
blood — 
I  '11  bleed  you  sweetly ! 

[Draws  and  passes  at  TEAVERS.     TRAVERS  disarms  him."] 

Trav.  Have  you  reached  your  wits  ? 

Euf.    Pshaw  !  fencing-master,  trickster  !  't  were  a 

reach,. 
To  get  my  wits  through  you.  —  0,  horrible ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  205 

Trav.    Nay,  Guy,  be  patient. 

Ruf.  Zounds  !  you  talk  to  me  ! 

There's  Lady  Alice,  in  the  country  yonder  — 
Stuck  down  among  the  weeds  and  cabbages — 
I  almost  love  her,  and  she  dotes  on  me. 
If  I  were  loose,  I  'd  run  down  to  her  place, 
And  marry  her,  by  Satan  !  — just  to  get 
A  guardian  for  myself.     0  !  fool,  fool,  fool ! 

Trav.    Prithee,  be  calm  ! 

Ruf.  Prithee,  be  —  There,  again, 

I  came  nigh  swearing !     See  what  you  have  done  : 
Ruined  my  hopes  for  life,  perilled  my  soul, 
And  —  0  !  if  I  were  in  some  open  plain, 
Some  empty  place,  where  I  might  curse  my  fill 
In  peace  and  quiet !     Where  has  Darkly  gone  ? 

Trav.   Fled  from  your  wrath. 

Ruf.  And  were  he  shod  with  wings, 

Plumed  with  the  speed  of  restless  Mercury, 
Armed  with  Jove's  thunder,  Pallas'  Gorgon  shield, 
Mars'  spear,  the  horrid  club  of  Hercules  — 

Trav.    The  Parcse's  chattels,  Vulcan's  forge  and 

limp, 

Cybele's  towers,  the  Titan's  mountain  load.  — 
Go  on  !   If  he  were  freighted  with  these  pagan  wares, 
I  swear  you  'd  find  him  :  but  with  empty  hands, 
And  lithe  legs  stirring  with  a  new-born  terror  — 
Like  a  shrewd  thief  who  sees  the  officer, 
Himself  unseen  — 

Ruf.  Lord !  what  a  tedious  tongue ! 

Out  on  your  "  peradventures  "  and  "becauses," 
And  "  ifs  "  and  "  buts  "  !     You  talk  a  deed  to  death, 
Murder  a  purpose  with  philosophy, 


206  THE   WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

And  sigh  and  moralize  above  its  corpse, 
As  if  it  died  by  nature. 

Trav.  Do  forbear  ! 

Your  words  are  simply  noises.     I  can  make 
A  better  meaning  from  the  cluck,  cluck,  cluck, 
Of  a  half-empty  bottle  of  stale  wine. 

Euf.    0,  yes  ;  I've  caught  your  plague:  a  single 

fool 
Often  infects  a  kingdom. 

Trav.  Hark  you,  Guy : 

I  say  you're  married  —  married  to  a  wife  — 

Euf.    And  you  respect  her ;  or  I  '11  make  you,  sir  1 
A  husband's  title  is  the  only  one 
To  warrant  kicks,  and  cufls,  and  hair-pullings, 
And  other  matrimonial  tendernesses. 
'Sdeath  !  I  intend  to  make  the  most  of  her : 
I  '11  paint  her  up  again,  and  frizz  her  curls, 
And  make  her  beautiful  as  a  Spring  sun, 
That  shines  into  the  Winter  ere  you  think, 
Melting  the  crusted  snow  to  violets, 
And  mottled  crocuses,  and  golden  grass.  — 
By  Jove  !  you  '11  envy  me. 

Trav.    (Laughing.)  Ha  !  ha  !  more  words. 

Euf.    Zounds  !  true.    I  cannot  talk  my  grief  away. 
Where  is  this  holy  devil,  Darkly,  hidden  ? 
I  '11  make  him  swear,  before  his  mother's  face, 
That  he  's  no  son  of  hers.     Poor  Alice  too  ! 

Trav.   The  country-girl  ? 

Euf.  Yes :  it  will  kill  her. 

Trav.  Ah  I 

What  a  kind  heart  you  have  ! 

Euf.  And  you,  you  churl, — 

You  trimming  politician,  scheming  Machiavell, — 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  20Y 

Who'd  trample  heaven  and  earth  beneath  your  feet, 
To  gain  an  end  !  —  Now,  Will,  I  coolly  tell  you, 
That  if  your  crafty  brain  do  not  contrive 
Some  way  for  my  escape,  I  '11  murder  you 
In  cold,  black  blood  !  —  Take  care  ! 

Trav.  Take  poison  1 

Buf.  Pah  !    [Exit.] 

Trav.    His  physic  works  too.     Just  one  nauseous 

drop, 

Of  the  same  drug  he  feeds  his  patient  on, 
Has  soured  the  doctor's  nature  to  the  core  ; 
And  brought  his  heart  up,  in  a  dreadful  state, 
All  spotted  through  and  through  with  Lady  Alice  ! 
How  stubborn  is  this  criminal,  the  heart, 
That  will  not  speak  except  upon  the  rack 
Of  strong  affliction.     Now  for  the  last  stroke. 

(Enter  LADY  GOLDSTRAW.) 

Lady  Goldstraw.   Sir  William,  pity  me. 

Trav.  I  would  do  more. 

Say  how  my  feelings  may  be  put  to  proof. 

Lady  G.    Eemove  my  husband  for  a  single  day  ; 
But  give  me  time  to  say  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  make  provision  for  my  helpless  child, 
And  I  will  slide  into  my  timely  grave 
So  quietly  that,  when  you  ask  for  me, 
My  friends  shall  give  no  answer. 

Trav.  Say  no  more. 

Ruffler  is  dearer  than  my  life  to  me  ; 
But  weighed  with  you,  how  light  a  thing  he  seems  ! 
You  who  not  only  bear  a  store  of  charms 
That  might  make  Juno  pine  upon  her  throne, 


208  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

And  Venus  drop  the  round  Hesperian  prize, 
Before  your  fuller  beauties  — 

Lady  G.  0  !  sir,  0  !  — 

Trav.   Nay,  hear  me,  lady.     This  alone  outweighs 
A  world  of  Rufflers  ;  but  you  wear  a  crown  — 
Unconsciously,  and  like  a  true-born  queen  — 
That  makes  his  life  scarce  worth  the  pleasant  pain 
Of  taking  it. 

Lady  G.    How  dreadfully  you  talk  ! 

Trav.    Your  wit  strikes  deeply  —  you  have  guessed 

my  secret  — 

I  see  it  in  your  eyes.     Heaven's  meaning  glows 
Through  their  deep  azure,  and  their  fringed  lids 
Are  heavy  with  the  tears  of  ecstasy.    [Takes  her  hand.'} 
If  I  interpret  these  celestial  signs, 
With  half  the  cunning  of  astrologers, 
You  love  me.  —  Nay,  the  word  is  on  your  lips. 
As  well  might  thunder  burst  upon  the  world, 
From  the  warm  splendor  of  a  sunny  sky, 
As  dread  denial  from  that  rosy  mouth  ! 

Lady  G.   0  me  !  0  me  !     A  fragile  woman,  sir, 
In  plain,  cheap  clothes. 

Trav.  What  covers  you  is  dear, 

And  gains  a  sanctity  from  every  touch 
That  makes  it  radiant. 

Lady  G.  Can  this  be,  indeed  ? 

Trav.   It  is,  I  say  1     Ah  !  promise  me  one  smile, 
One  look  of  cheer,  one  glance,  and  Ruffler — Nay, 
I  '11  not  profane  your  senses  with  his  name. 
I  know  a  way  to  free  you.     I  require 
No  wages  for  my  service.     The  mere  act 
That  brings  content  to  you  repays  itself. 

Lady  G.   Can  it  be  done  with  safety  ? 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  209 

Trav.  Ay  ;  but  who 

Sums  up  the  venture  for  a  prize  like  this  ? 
Adieu  !  time  calls  for  action.     Sweet,  adieu  I 
A  clear  relapse,  by  Jove  !  [Aside.    Exit."] 

Lady  G.  Sir  William,  stay  1 

I  call  that  love,  real  love.     But  how  can  he 
Shuffle  by  Ruffler  ;  as  if  husbands  grew, 
Like  o'er-ripe  fruit  to  us,  and  only  needed 
A  little  shaking  to  fall  off  ?     I  fear 
The  law  binds  tighter  than  Sir  William  thinks. 
Yet  wits  like  his  are  full  of  happy  schemes. 

[Z,oo/c,s  into  a  mirror.] 

Dear  me  !  I  have  disfigured  this  poor  shape 
By  my  absurd  ideas.     These  homely  robes 
I  wore  as  penance  for  my  marriage-rites, 
These  cheeks  were  washed  with  penitential  tears, 
These  locks  were  shorn  with  penitential  hands  : 
Art  shall  repair  my  folly.     Love  me  now  ! 
How  will  he  love  me  when  I  come  to  him 
In  all  my  former  glory  !     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I        [Laughing.] 
Another  heart !     Who  has  the  impudence 
To  call  me  old  or  faded  ?     Madge,  you  child, 
Get  to  your  books  again  :  leave  the  field  clear 
For  my  triumphant  progress  !     Open  doors  ! 
Let  my  state-chambers  brighten  up  again  ! 
Call  in  the  barbers,  milliners,  and  knaves, 
That  deck  our  person  for  the  envious  world  ! 
;0ds  love  !  we  '11  queen  it,  while  our  crown  is  on  ! 

[Exit,  proudly."] 
VOL.  n.  14 


210  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

SCENE   H. 

(Jl  Drawing-Room  in  the  Same.     Enter    RUFFLEE,  TRAVEBS, 
GOLDSTKAW,  and  MADGE.) 

Huffier.    I  'in  sick  of  it. 

Madge.  And  I. 

Travers.  I  tell  you  both, 

Your  wife,  sir,  and  your  mother,  gentle  lady, 
Has  not  withstood  the  test. 

Madge.  Nor  ever  will. 

'T  is  in  her  nature,  sir  ;  to  weed  it  out, 
Were  to  pull  up  her  being  by  the  roots. 
I  grant  that  'tis  a  hurtful  growth  ;  yet  it 
Has  twined  itself  through  many  better  things. 
Which  are  apparent  to  a  daughter's  eyes, 
Though  lost  on  you.     Let  us  endure  the  ill 
For  the  good's  sake.     I  love  her  ;  that  implies 
I  love  her  as  she  is,  not  as  you  'd  make  her  ; 
Nor  can  I  now  foretell  if  any  change, 
Even  for  the  better,  might  not  change  my  love. 
What  think  you,  Hal  ? 

Goldstraw.         That  you  're  the  best  of  daughters, 
But  not,  in  that  respect,  the  best  of  friends. 
Sir  William's  purpose  seeks  your  mother's  good, 
And  only  indirectly  aims  at  you. 

Madge.   Well,  well! 

Ruf.  Pray  you,  consider  me,  good  sirs. 

Am  I  a  thing  to  push  about  at  will  ? 
In  faith,  you  '11  find  me  somewhat  bulky  when 
You  come  to  move  me. 

Trav.  But  I  promised  you — 


THE    WIDOW  S    MARRIAGE.  211 

Did  I  not,  Guy  ?  —  the  body  of  Saint  Darkly, 
Alive  or  dead.     And  more  — 

Euf.  That  is  enough  : 

Let  me  but  hack  his  carcass  into  reliques, 
And  I  will  do  the  world  some  service  yet. 
I  'm  ready  for  my  part. 

Trav.  So  are  the  rest.    [Leads  MADGE  apart.] 

I  '11  claim  your  pledge  anon. 

Madge.  My  pledge  ! 

Trav.  The  hand, 

The  hand,  fair  lady,  when  the  play  is  o'er. 

Madge.  How  many  poets  have  been  tricked  of  that  ! 


Gold.   Your  whispers  are  too  loud  for  secrecy, 
Though  quite  too  low  for  satisfaction,  Madge. 
If  you  'd  be  private  with  Sir  William  Travers, 
Withdraw  ;  I  '11  hold  the  door,  to  let  you  pass. 

Madge.    Why,  Hal  !  —  [Taking  him  apart.] 

Gold.  Why,  Madge  ! 

Madge.  What,  jealous  of  my  words  ! 

Gold.   If  they  were  worthless  — 

Madge.  There  !  that  pretty  thing 

Will  do  unspoken.     I  foresee  a  time, 
A  very  dreary  time,  for  little  Madge. 

Gold.   Or  very  merry,  if  she  '11  stand  a  while 
Out  of  this  artificial,  hot-bed  world, 
To  let  that  spice  of  coquetry  dry  up  : 
A  very  pretty  flower,  to  deck  a  maid  ; 
A  thorny  stalk  within  a  marriage-bed. 

Trav.   Come,  Ruffler. 

Euf.  Ay,  ay,  Will  ;  't  is  come,  good  dog  — 

And  go,  good  dog  —  and  —  0  !  you  heartless  wretch, 


212  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Had  you  my  weight  of  misery  at  your  heart ! 

Poor  Lady  Alice  !  [Exit  with  TRAVEES.] 

Gold.  Narrowly  escaped. 

Here  comes  your  mother,  in  full  tire  again, 
Blooming  with  paint,  and  odorous  as  the  East 
With  borrowed  perfumes.    All  her  curls  have  grown, 
Within  an  hour,  beneath  Sir  William's  breath  ; 
And  what  she  lacks  in  youth,  she  gains  in  art  — 
A  sorry  patchwork ! 

Madge.  A  sad  spectacle  ! 

Gold.   Her  shroud  would  more  become  her. 

Madge.  Hal ! 

Gold.  Forgive  me. 

Your  father's  grave  rose  in  my  memory, 
And  seemed  to  claim  a  partner. 

(Enter  LADY  GOLDSTBAW.) 

Lady  Goldstraw.  You  here,  child  ! 

Get  to  your  studies  ;  make  yourself  more  fit 
For  male  companionship,  before  you  thrust 
Your  greenness  forward. 

Madge.  Madam  !  — 

Gold.  Madge  !  —  Aunt,  aunt, 

Pray  keep  your  honey-moon  without  eclipse. 

Lady  G.   My  honey-moon !   You  saw — why  should 
I  blush?—  [Aside.] 

You  saw  Sir  William  Travers  pass  this  way  ? 

Gold.    An   hour   ago,   with  your   good   husband, 

aunt ; — 
In  high  words  too. 

Lady  G.    I  like  not  that.    (Aside.)   High  words  ?  — 
Such  as  — 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  213 

Gold.    "Base  fool!"    And  " By  your  leave,  you 

lie  ! " 
And  "  If  you  dare  be  brave,  slave  !  "  — 

Lady  O.  That  will  do. 

0  dear  !  my  heart  misgives  me.     Did  he  mean 
To  kill  my  husband  ?     Risk  his  precious  life 
Against  a  drunken  brawler  !    (Aside.)    Harry,  run  : 
They  '11  come  to  mischief. 

Gold.  Never  fear. 

Lady  G.  Run,  run  ! 

Procure  an  officer.  —  You  stony  fool, 
Why  stand  you  gaping,  when  their  blood  may  flow 
Eveu  while  you  stare  at  me  ? 

(Enter  HOPEFUL,  FOAM,  POLLEN,  and  MARKS.) 

Who  let  you  in  ? 
Hopeful.    Fallen   idol,   he  who   oped  the  wooden 

doors 

Of  our  lost  Paradise  was  Nick,  thy  man. 
Marks.    We  would  congratulate  you. 
Foam.  La !  yes,  madam  ; 

We  kiss  your  hand. 

Pollen.  I  bow  my  colors  down. 

Lady  G.    You  stand  there  still  ? 

[Apart  to  GOLDSTRAW.] 
Gold.  In  wonder. 

Lady  G.  At  these  fools  ? 

What  brought  you  here  ?  —  what  keeps  you  here  ?  — 

And  why, 
In  Heaven's  sweet  name,  do  you  not  quit  my  sight  ? 

1  'm  on  the  rack,  yet  dare  not  groan  !  [Aside.] 

Marks.  Your  speech, 

Hopeful,  your  speech  ! 

Hope.  Renowned  enchantress,  list ! 

We  who  upon  your  fateful  wedding-day 


214  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Showered  our  blessings  on  your  orange-wreath, 

Seeing  that  wreath  has  changed  to  stinging  thistles, 

Thought  it  might  riot  be  an  ungracious  act, 

To  come  and  gratulate  your  ladyship 

Upon  your  husband's  death.     Since  that  alone  — 

Lady  G.   Has  he  run  mad,  at  last  ? 

Hope.  Mad ! 

Marks.  Sober  truth : 

We  saw  the  body. 

Hope.  With  more  fatal  stabs 

Than  Cassar  gathered  in  the  Capitol. 

Pol.    Why,  once  in  Flanders  — 

Lady  O.  Silence  !   I  shall  die 

Before  I  understand  you.     Master  Marks  — 

Marks.  Your  husband 's  dead  :  there 's  the  blunt 
truth  for  you. 

Lady  G.    0,  Heaven  !  —  I  —  Harry  —  How  did  he 
die? 

Pol.    Why,  like  a  soldier  ! 

Lady  G.  Mercy  I 

Marks.  Stabbed  to  death. 

Lady  G.    By  whom  ?  —  Quick  ! 

Marks.  No  one  knows. 

Lady  G.  Thank  Heaven  1     [Aside.] 

(Enter  TRAVEKS,  his  hands  bloody.) 

You  here  !  — 
What 's  this  —  this  stain  upon  your  hands  ?    Speak  ! 

speak ! 
You  did  not  kill  him  ? 

Trav.  He  is  yours  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  questions. 

[Takes  her  hand.     She  shrinks  away.~\ 

Lady  G.  Murderer! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  215 

All.  How  ? 

Trav.  Look  there  ! 

(Enter  RUFFLER,  as  a  ghost,  pointing  to  a  wound  on  his  breast.) 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  my  feverish  brain  ? 
Or  — 

Lady  G.   Terrible ! 

Trav.  You  see  it,  too  ! 

All.  See  what  ? 

Trav.    Thou  gory  horror,  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
I  say,  I  slew  thee,  in  fair,  open  fight ! 
Monsters  like  thee  should  track  the  murderer, 
Not  the  true  man  ! 

Gold.  Poor  gentleman  !  the  loss 

Of  his  old  friend  has  quite  bewildered  him. 

Lady  G.  Kind  Heaven,  destroy  my  sight !  Let  me 

not  look 
Upon  this  thing,  and  live  ! 

Gold.  Aunt,  are  you  crazed  ? 

Here  's  nothing  but  a  chair  —  a  table  here. 
Ay,  that 's  the  portrait  of  your  former  husband  : 
He  looks  upon  you  sorrowfully,  I  grant ; 
But  so  he  must  have  looked  throughout  his  life. 

[Holds  MADGE  back."} 
[RUFFLER  advances  towards  LADY  GOLDSTRAW.] 

Lady  G.   Keep  it  away  !  —  Stand  off !  —  I  had  no 

hand  — 

Mine  are  not  bloody  —  in  this  butchery  I 
Look  at  my  hand  —  0,  horror  !  blood  here,  too  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  we  three  wear  one  foul  livery  ! 
Ha  !  ha !  how  like  you  scarlet,  gentlemen, 
For  a  lord's  lady  ? 

[Bursts  into  a  laugh,  and  faints,  supported  by  GOLDSTRAW.] 

Madge.    (Rushing  forward.)    Mother!  — 


216  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Trav.  Give  her  air. 

Ruffler,  go  wash  your  ghostly  colors  off. 

[Exit  RUFFLER.] 

Fear  nothing,  lady :  't  is  the  crisis,  now  ; 
That  past,  all  will  be  well. 

Madge.  Ah  !  my  poor  mother  !  — 

Inhuman  men  !  —  Hal  Goldstraw,  you  as  well  — 
You  could  consent  to  this  ! 

Trav.  Hist !  she  awakes. 

Gold.    Dear  aunt ! 

Trav.  How  feel  you,  madam  ? 

Lady  G.  Has  it  gone  ? 

Gold.   What  has  been  here  ? 

Lady  G.  My  —  my  — 

Trav.  You  pause. 

Lady  G.  You  here  ! 

Dare  you  to  question  me  ? 

Trav.  Why  not,  my  lady  ? 

Lady  G.    Where  is  my  husband  ? 

Gold.  Madam,  you  should  know 

How  long  the  good  Lord  Mayor  has  been  entombed. 

Lady  G.    Sirs,  would  you  mock  me  ?     Am  I  not  a 

bride  ? 
Was  I  not  married  yesterday  ? 

Gold.  Dear  aunt, 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering.     You  have  been  a 

widow 
Some  fifteen  years  or  more. 

Lady  G.  Did  I  not  wed 

A  loose,  low  ruffian,  by  the  name  of  Ruffler  ? 
Was  he  not  killed  ?     And  am  I  not —  0,  heaven  ! 

[Covers  her  face.'} 

Trav.    He  will  feel  flattered  at  the  character 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  211 

You  have  bestowed  upon  him.     Ruffler  lives, 
And  is  within  your  house.     A  sober  man, 
I  can  assure  you  ;  and  no  more  your  husband 
Than  your  fair  daughter,  there. 

Lady  G.  Strange  !     Madge,  come  here. 

You  have  been  weeping.     Dry  your  pretty  eyes. 
It  has  been  all  a  dream  —  but  such  a  dream  ! 
I  have  been  ill  and  feverish.  — All  a  dream ! 

Trav.   0,  yes  ;  there  was  a  German  who  believed 
Dream-life  the  true  one,  and  our  actual  state 
A  mere  illusion  :  in  that  faith  he  died. 

Lady  G.    I  've  heard  of  such  things.     It  was  won 
derful  ! 

I  have  had  other  waking  fancies,  too  ; 
But  they  are  over  now.     Those  gentlemen, 
Companions  of  my  folly,  if  they  stay, 
Must  not  suggest  my  weakness  :  it  has  past. 

Hopeful.    Queen  of  my  heart !  — 

Lady  G.    (Laughing.)  That  is  sufficient,  sir. 

I  abdicate  in  favor  of  my  child. 
The  crown  of  hearts  will  hardly  slide  across 
My  many  wrinkles  :  here 's  a  smoother  brow, 
More  worth  the  dignity  of  general  love, 
And  thus  I  bless  it. 

All.  Long  live  Madge,  our  queen  ! 

(Enter  RUFFLER,  dragging  in  DAKKLT,  and  followed  by  DOLLY 
FLAKK.) 

Euffler.   Howl,  villain,  howl  I  Your  agony  delights 

me  ; 

And  you,  she-devil,  add  your  cries  to  his  ; 
A  merrier  concert  never  struck  my  ear. 
Now,  here,  upon  your  knees,  before  us  all, 
Confess  your  lies.     Say,  are  you  under  orders  ? 


218  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Darkly.   Under  your  orders,  as  the  hireling  lies 
Beneath  the  master's. 

Ruf,  But  you  lie  without  them, 

Much  to  my  sorrow.     Am  I  married  ?  —  Speak  ! 

Dark.   No,  no  ! 

Ruf.  You  never  saw  me  wed  ? 

Dark.  No,  no ! 

Ruf.   You  were  not  present  ?    You  were  in  the 

moon, 
The  sun,  in  heaven,  in  — 

Dark.  No  !  0  !  let  me  say 

One  great  concluding  no,  and  end  this  choking. 

Ruf.   Now,  for  your  penance,  I  consign  you  over 
To  Dolly  Flare,  forever. 

Dark.  But  my  faith 

Forbids  vain  penance.     I  am  under  vows 
Never  to  mate  with  woman. 

Ruf.  Under  vows, 

You  deadly  papist  I  and  not  wed  a  woman  ! 
I  '11  join  you  to  an  ape,  then. 

Dark.  Must  I  take 

Thy  Jezebel,  thy  minion,  thy  cast  ware  ? 
Nay,  throw  her  from  the  window  to  the  dogs  ! 

Ruf.    That  might  improve  her  fate. 

Dark.    (To  DOLLY,  who  approaches  him.)    Avaunt,  thou 

witch ! 
Child  of  iniquity,  thy  touch  defiles  me  ! 

Dolly.    Not  more  than  yours  has  me. 

Dark.  Speak,  and  I  '11  curse  thee. 

Dol.    Curse  away,  then  :  I  care  not  for  your  curse. 
My  lord,  forgive  me  :  I  have  lied  of  you, 
For  that  man's  sake. 

Ruf.  Ho  !  ho  !  the  fox  is  up  ! 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  219 

Darkly,  sweet  saint,  lift  up  your  sacred  head. 
Here,  take  her  hand.     (Joins  their  hands.)     I  join  you 

two  in  one, 

And  throw  you,  thus,  across  the  nuptial  line, 
As  boys   do   cats. — There,  scratch  yourselves  to 
death ! 

Dark.    0  !  0  1  the  heathen  rages !     Wife  of  mine, 
Let  us  remove  our  habitation  hence. 
I  am  inclined  to  cleave  to  thee —  [Stealing  off.] 

Euf.  Hold,  there  ! 

You  shall  not  stir  until  I  see  you  wed. 
Hey  !  Reynard,  would  you  dodge  ? 

Dark.  010!      [Retires  with  DOLLY.} 

Euf.  And  you, 

My  quondam  wife,  are  you  inclined  to  try 
A  serious  union  with  a  young  gallant  ? 
Here 's  Travers,  heart-free. 

Trav.  Whew ! 

Lady  G.  Excuse  me,  sir, 

Your  friend  has  been  explaining  all  to  me. 
The  process  of  your  jest  was  somewhat  harsh, 
Yet  I  confess  'twas  healthful ;  and,  though  built 
Upon  a  fiction,  that  may  move  my  mirth, 
I  see  no  reason  why  the  same  events, 
If  true,  might  not  have  drained  my  silly  eyes 
Of  their  last  tear. 

Euf.  Travers  is  scorned,  then  ? 

Lady  G.  No ; 

Not  scorned,  but  not  accepted. 

Trav.  Cheer  up,  Guy ; 

There 's  something  left  me.     Lady,  by  your  leave, 
The  play  is  over,  shall  I  gain  the  hand  ? 

[Offers  to  take  MADGE'S  hand.] 


220  THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE. 

Gold,    (interposing.)    Sir,  by  your  leave,  I  urge  a 
prior  claim .  [  Ta kes  her  hand .  ] 

Euf.   Ho !   ho !     Will  Travers,  we  are   gulled,  I 
think ;  [Laughing.] 

Apollo  's  tumbled  from  his  pedestal ! 
Nay,  hark  you,  now,  superior  intellect, 
You  look  less  like  Minerva  than  her  owl ! 

0  !  this  is  too  good !     Some  one  hug  me  tight, 
Or  I  shall  split  with  laughter !     Travers  gulled 
By  two  mere  mortals  ! 

Tram.  'Sdeath  !  you  monstrous  dunce  ! 

Euf.    (Apart  to  TRAVERS.)    I  am  beginning  to  reform 
my  faith : 

1  thought  Madge  Goldstraw  loved  me.     Seriously, 
I  fear  all  women  do  not  love  us,  Will. 

Trav.   You  should  respect  them  —  if  you  know 

yourself — 
For  that  one  fact. 

Euf.  But  Lady  Alice ! 

Trav.  Poh ! 

Guy,  Guy,  the  truth  will  out :  I  really  love, 
With  all  my  heart,  I  really  love  sweet  Madge. 
I  scoffed  at  love,  once  — 

Euf.  Bravo  !  baby  Cupid, 

This  is  thy  vengeance  !     Travers,  are  you  paid  ? 

Trav.    Beyond  my  sin  :    The  gods  do  naught  by 

halves. 
Where  goes  the  hand  ?  [To  MADOE.] 

Madge.  Where  the  heart  went  before. 

Gold.    A  gentle  herald  !     Do  not  envy  me 
The  dearest  blessing  that  has  crossed  my  path. 
You  have  a  happiness  within  yourself, 
A  soul  made  fruitful  by  a  teeming  mind  ; 


THE    WIDOW'S    MARRIAGE.  221 

Mine  is  all  here,  within  this  little  hand. 
Your  sanction,  madam. 

Lady  G.  Take  it.     'T  is  a  match 

Your  uncle  planned,  and  smiles  upon,  I  know : 
The  sod  lies  lighter  on  his  grave  for  this. 

Trav.    Come,  Guy,  I  want  some  country  air.     I  '11 

plant 

Myself  among  your  weeds  and  cabbages, 
Poultry,  and  pigs,  and  Lady  Alices. 

Ruf.    'Sdeath  !  mend  your  phrases. 

Lady  G.  Gentlemen,  no  jars. 

You,  who  have  made  my  marriage-day  so  bright 
With  heart-felt  blessings,  must  not  bring  the  night 
Ere  I  enjoy  the  sunshine.     I  would  see 
The  bowl  pass  round  among  this  company. 
Will  goodness  not  become  me  —  make  me  fair  ?  — 

Euf.   There's  the  old  sin,  in  a  new  shape  —  be 
ware  ! 

Lady  G.   True ;  I  '11  be  cautious.     You  have  had 

a  day 

Of  harmless  merriment ;  thank  Heaven,  I  pray, 
For  the  enjoyment ;  and  preserve  your  wine 
Safe  from  the  bitter  taint  of  tearful  brine, 
Till  you  can  pledge  me  in  my  altered  carriage  :  — 
What  shall  the  toast  be,  sirs  ? 

All.  The  Widow's  Marriage  I 


POEMS. 


THE 


PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER; 


A  DRAMATIC  SKETCH. 


SCENE.  Before  and  within  the  Gate  of  an  Italian  Church-Yard. 
Enter,  as  if  from  the  wars,  DUKE  ODO,  VINCENZO,  and  a  train 
of  Men-at-arms. 

DUKE  ODO.      (Dismounting.) 

HARK  you,  Vincenzo  ;  here  will  I  dismount. 
Lead  on  Falcone  to  the  castle.     See 
He  lack  no  provender  nor  barley-straw 
To  ease  his  battered  sides.     Poor  war-worn  horse  I 
When  last  we  galloped  past  this  church-yard  gate, 
He  was  a  colt,  gamesome  and  hot  of  blood, 
Bearing  against  the  bit  until  my  arm 
Ached  with  his  humors.     Mark  the  old  jade  now  — 
He  knows  we  talk  about  him  —  a  mere  boy 
Might  ride  him  bare-backed.     Give  my  people  note 
Of  my  approach,  and  tell  them,  for  yourself, 
I  will  not  look  too  strictly  at  my  house  : 

VOL.  n.  15 


226  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

An  absent  lord  trains  careless  servitors. 

I  wish  no  bonfires  lighted  on  the  hills, 

No  peaceful  cannon  roused  to  mimic  wrath. 

Say,  I  have  seen  cities  burn,  and  shouting  ranks 

Of  solid  steel-clad  footmen  melt  away 

Before  a  hundred  pieces.     Say,  I  come 

For  rest,  not  jollity  ;  and  all  I  seek 

Is  a  calm  welcome  in  their  lighted  eyes, 

And  quiet  murmurs  that  appear  to  come 

More  from  the  heart  than  lips.     Kemember  this. 

Yon  old  gray  man  who  wanders  through  the  tombs, 

Like  Time  among  his  spoils,  is  the  first  face, 

Of  all  the  many  strange  ones  we  have  passed, 

That  I  can  call  by  name :  I  '11  question  him. 

See  Marco's  bed  be  soft.     Let  him  be  laid 

In  the  south  turret,  close  beside  my  room  : 

His  wound  aches  cruelly.     I  must  not  forget 

The  cry  of  love  with  which  he  dashed  between 

My  broken  corslet  and  the  Frenchman's  spear. 

There,  lead  Falcone  gently.     Loose  his  girth  ; 

Unhook  his  curb.     He  ever  fretted  thus 

.To  part  from  me. 

VINCENZO. 

Lord  !  signor,  here  's  a  task  ! 
First,  lead  this  furious  devil  to  his  crib, 
Throttle  the  cannon,  blow  the  bonfires  out, 
Tell  o'er  another  Iliad  of  your  fights  — 
A  hundred  battles  to  Achilles'  one  ; 
Keep  down  such  yells  of  joy  as  might  outbrave 
The  lungs  of  thunder  ;  make  a  bed  for  Marco  —  . 
A  soft  bed,  bless  me  !  —  the  outrageous  bear 
Would  growl,  like  Cerberus,  if  he  were  laid 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  22T 

Upon  the  cloudy  couch  of  amorous  Venus. 
Then  —  Well,  you  say  it,  and  — 

DUKE    ODO. 

You  will  obey  ; 

Bettering  my  plans  with  your  inventive  brain  : 
Only  there  must  be  hinderances  enough 
To  heighten  your  good  service.     Fare  you  well ! 

(ViNCENZO  and  the  train  ride  on  towards  the  castle.    DUKE  ODO 
enters  the  church-yard,  and  approaches  the  PODESTA.) 

Good-even,  signer ! 

PODESTA. 

Welcome  !     An  old  man 
May  fitly  bid  you  welcome  here  ;  for  I, 
Standing  upon  this  grave-yard,  sometimes  feel 
Like  an  unseized  inheritor  who  treads 
Hereditary  acres,  long  kept  back. 
I  am  next  heir  to  this  domain  of  death : 
Ere  many  days,  I  '11  come  with  funeral  pomp 
To  claim  my  full  possession.     Welcome,  then  ! 
No  breach  of  hospitality  shall  prove 
My  right  unworthy.     I  was  thinking  thus  — 
Framing  such  salutation  for  a  guest  — 
While  you  stood  in  the  gateway. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Merry  sadness ! 

- 

PODESTA. 

Ay,  signer,  't  is  as  well  as  weeping  mirth. 
Laughter  and  tears  !  their  issue  is  the  same ; 


228  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

One  treads  upon  the  other's  flying  heels, 
Heaven  takes  up  each  into  its  steady  breast, 
Life  rolls  along  beyond  the  power  of  both, 
And  either  is  soon  over. 


DUKE  ODO. 

True  as  sad. 


I  pray  you,  Podesta  — 

PODE8TA. 

How  !     You  know  my  office  ? 

DUKE    ODO. 

One  at  the  gate  informed  me. 

PODESTA. 

Who  were  they  — 

Those  horsemen  that  went  clattering  up  the  street  ? 
Yon  wall  concealed  them. 

DUKE    ODO. 

Servants  of  the  castle. 

PODESTA. 

What  a  rude  stir  the  lazy  varlets  made  ! 

'T  is  now  all  play  with  them.     The  duke  's  abroad, 

Battering  down  castles,  while  malicious  time 

Is  busy  with  his  own.     He  '11  find  neglect 

Makes  as  sad  breaches  as  his  cannon-balls. 

The  whole  world  rots  together,  men  and  things  ; 

That 's  comforting  to  mortals. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  229 


DUKE    ODO. 

How  the  graves 


Have  thickened  here  1 

PODESTA. 

Ay,  truly  ;  and  should  man 
Consent  to  leave  these  landmarks  of  the  dead 
Stand  a  few  centuries,  he  would  make  his  home 
Within  the  peopled  cities  of  decay  ; 
And  the  bewildered  swain,  furrowing  the  fields, 
Would  drive  his  plough  zig-zag  between  the  stones 
In  sowing-time. 

DUKE  ODO. 

This  consecrated  ground, 
Within  my  memory,  was  an  open  field. 
Here  I  have  seen  the  golden  heads  of  grain 
Shaken  together  in  an  autumn  gust ; 
Where  yon  ambitious  marble  lifts  its  pile 
Of  sculptured  trophies,  I  have  seen  the  peasant, 
With  hearty,  laughing  labor,  strike  his  spade 
To  found  the  May-pole.     Glancing  eyes  and  feet, 
Timed  to  the  lute  and  rattling  Castanet, 
Figures  of  rustic  grace  and  rustic  strength, 
Gaudy  with  flaring  ribbons,  I  have  seen 
Whirled  in  a  transient  frenzy  round  and  round 
That  festal  tree.     Where  is  the  ripened  grain  ? 
Yonder  the  spade  was  struck,  with  heavier  heart, 
For  other  purposes  ;  and  other  sounds 
Than  May-day  dance  and  music  have  been  heard 
Around  the  crusted  sculptures  of  that  tomb. 


230  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

Alas  !  the  very  flowers  which  twined  the  pole 

Have  turned  to  marble  ;  colorless  and  sad 

They  stiffen  round  yon  column,  and  appear 

Such  flowers  as  winter,  in  a  jealous  mood, 

Might  breed  upon  the  bosom  of  his  snows, 

In  mockery  of  spring.     Where  are  the  forms 

Of  maiden  beauty  and  of  manly  power 

That  crushed  the  tender  grass  beneath  their  feet  ? 

Sleep  they  in  their  own  footsteps  ?     Does  the  grass 

Grow  over  them  secure  ?     The  votive  wreath, 

Hanging  upon  the  headstone  of  this  grave, 

Perchance  conceals  a  name  which  one  time  passed 

From  lip  to  lip  like  cheering  news  ;  the  eyes 

Of  young  and  old  grew  bright  with  heart-born  ease, 

To  hear  her  foot-fall  on  the  cottage-floor  ; 

And  some,  no  doubt,  burned  with  a  warmer  fire 

That  smouldered  shyly,  and  went  out  unseen  — 

An  inner  torture.     Let  me  raise  the  garland. 

"  Giulia,"  and  nothing  more.    Whose  grave  is  this  ? 

PODESTA. 

My  daughter's. —  Heaven  protect  your  life !  how  pale, 
How  very  pale  you  turn  ! 

DUKE  ODO. 

What,  I  ?  —  Indeed  ?  - 
Well,  well,  I  am  a  soldier,  and  my  wounds 
Will  twinge  sometimes.     Besides,  I  felt  a  shock 
Recoil  upon  me,  at  my  sudden  burst 
Into  your  sacred  grief.     Pray  pardon  me. — 
Whose  tomb  is  that  ?  —  yonder  great,  haughty  work, 
That  seems  to  rise,  like  purse-puffed  insolence, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  231 

Among  the  humbler  grave-stones,  crying,  "  See, 
Even  in  death  I  keep  my  wonted  state  !  " 

PODESTA. 

Signor,  you  wrong  the  dead.     The  clay  beneath 

Asked  only  to  be  tombed  in  open  ground, 

Where  the  deep  sky  might  stretch  above  his  head, 

The  bright  flowers  grow,  and  the  south  breezes  bring 

A  noise  of  running  waters,  and  a  gush 

Of  drowsy  murmurs,  rustling  through  the  trees, 

Forever  round  him.     'T  was  his  fancy.     He 

Shuddered  with  horror  when  the  thought  would  come 

Of  his  ancestral  crypts,  where  daylight  turned 

Into  an  oozy  dampness,  worse  than  night. 

"  How  shall  I  lie  with  patience  all  the  years 

Earth  has  in  store  for  her,  beneath  a  place 

At  which  my  dullest  instincts  cower  with  fear  ? 

Lay  me  beneath  the  sun,"  he  ever  said. 

Age  has  its  toys,  like  childhood  ;  this  was  his. 

So,  when  he  died,  through  superstitious  dread  — 

But  more  through  love  —  with  smothered  discontent, 

They  laid  him  there,  and  piled  that  pompous  mass  — 

Which  wrongs  the  spirit  of  his  last  request  — 

High  over  him.     That  tomb  is  old  Duke  Odo's. 

DUKE    ODO. 

Heaven  rest  his  soul ! 

PODESTA. 

Amen  !     My  Giulia  loved  him  — 
Though  she  had  little  reason  —  to  the  last. 


232  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

DUKE    ODO. 

How  long  has  she  been  dead  ? 

PODESTA. 

Why  —  let  me  see 

Since  young  Count  Odo  buckled  on  his  arms  — 
He  is  the  duke  now,  but  I  still  forget  — 
Is  nigh  a  score  of  years  :  my  daughter  died 
A  twelvemonth  from  the  day  he  journeyed  hence. 
0,  weary  time !     And  Ugo,  too,  is  dead  ; 
Daughter  and  son  are  lying  side  by  side  : 
The  fruit  has  fallen,  but  the  old  trunk  stands, 
Forlorn  and  barren,  rooted  yet  in  life. 
'T  is  a  long  story  ;  would  you  hear  it  all  ? 
Past  griefs  are  garrulous,  and  slighted  age 
Is  pleased  to  listen  to  its  own  thin  voice. 
Sit  there  on  Giulia's  grave  —  the  sod  is  fresh  — 
I  '11  find  a  seat  on  Ugo's. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Nay,  nay,  signer ; 

A  maiden's  grave  is  of  choice  sanctity : 
I  '11  stand  and  listen. 

PODESTA. 

Please  yourself;  I  '11  sit. 
This  tale  could  not  be  told  to  every  ear ;  — 
Though,  after  all,  't  is  a  mere  history 
Of  how  a  maiden  lived,  how  loved,  how  died  : 
A  simple  matter,  such  as  gossips  vex 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  233 

Our  sleepy  ears  with  round  a  winter's  fire. 
Yet,  for  all  this,  a  sympathetic  heart, 
Like  that  you  seem  to  own,  is  only  fit 
To  hold  the  pure  distilment  of  such  tears 
As  early  sorrow  sheds.     Shall  I  go  on  ? 
Or  do  I  blunder  in  my  thought  of  you  ? 

DUKE    ODO. 

Of  me  !     0,  heaven  !     (Aside.)     No,  no. 

PODESTA. 

Well,  let  me  think. 

On  her  twelfth  birthday  my  child,  Giulia  — 
I  now  may  say  it,  she  is  dead  so  long  — 
Was  fairer  than  the  rose  she  loved  so  much, 
White  as  the  lily  were  her  virgin  thoughts, 
Her  pride  as  humble  as  the  violet ; 
Her  fancies  trained  as  easily  as  the  vine 
That  loves  a  strong  support  to  grow  around, 
And  grows  not  upward,  if  not  upward  held : 
So  all  her  pliant  nature  leaned  upon 
Me  and  her  brother,  Ugo.     Sweeter  far 
Than  rose  or  lily,  violet  or  vine, 
Though  they  could  gather  all  their  charms  in  one, 
Was  the  united  being  of  my  child, 
Just  as  she  stepped  beyond  her  childish  ways, 
And  lightly  trod  the  paths  of  womanhood. 
Only  there  was  this  one  defect  in  her  — 
If  a  half  beauty  may  be  called  defect  — 
She  was  too  rare,  too  airy,  too  refined, 
Too  much  of  essence,  and  too  little  flesh, 
For  the  rude  struggles  of  rough-handed  earth. 


Zdl  THE    PODE3TA  3    DAUGHTER 

Even  her  very  life  seemed  bound  to  her 

By  frailer  tenures  than  belong  to  us. 

There  was  no  compact  between  heaven  and  earth 

Regarding  her.     She  had  no  term  to  live, 

No  time  to  die.     Within  her  life  and  death 

Seemed  ever  striving  for  the  mastery  ; 

And  she  on  either  smiled  with  equal  cheer. 

She  was  a  product  of  her  native  air, 

Born  from  the  breath  of  flowers,  the  dews  of  night, 

The  balm  of  morning,  the  melodious  strains 

That  haunt  our  twilight,  waning  with  the  moon. 

Each  unsubstantial  thing  took  form  in  her  ; 

Even  her  country's  sun  had  shot  its  fire 

Through  all  her  nature,  and  burnt  deeply  down 

Into  her  soul :  —  Here  was  the  curse  of  all ! 

Count  Odo  —  mark  the  contrast  —  so  we  called, 

Through  ancient  courtesy,  the  old  duke's  son  — 

Came  from  the  Roman  breed  of  Italy. 

A  hundred  Caesars  poured  their  royal  blood 

Through  his  full  veins.     He  was  both  flint  and  fire ; 

Haughty  and  headlong,  shy,  imperious, 

Tender,  disdainful,  tearful,  full  of  frowns  ; 

Cold  as  the  ice  on  ^Etna's  wintry  brow, 

And  hotter  than  its  flame.     All  these  by  turns. 

A  mystery  to  his  tutors  and  to  me  — 

Yet  some  have  said  his  father  fathomed  him  — 

A  mystery  to  my  daughter,  but  a  charm 

Deeper  than  magic.     Him  my  daughter  loved. 

DUKE  ODO. 
Loved  !     Are  you  sane  ? 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  235 


PODESTA. 

The  thing  seems  strange  enough, 
That  love  should  draw  my  tender  flutterer 
Around  this  jetting  flame  ;  but  so  it  was. 
She  loved  so  truly,  and  she  flew  so  near  — 
But  I  forestall  the  end. 

DUKE  ODO. 
0,  misery !     Inside.] 

PODESTA. 

My  functions  drew  me  to  the  castle  oft, 
Thither  sometimes  my  daughter  went  with  me  ; 
And  I  have  noticed  how  young  Odo's  eyes 
Would  light  her  up  the  stairway,  lead  her  on 
From  room  to  room,  through  hall  and  corridor, 
Showing  her  wonders,  which  were  stale  to  him, 
With  a  new  strangeness.     For  familiar  things, 
Beneath  her  eyes,  grew  glorified  to  him ; 
And  woke  a  strain  of  boyish  eloquence, 
Dressed  with  high  thoughts  and  fluent  images, 
That  sometimes  made  him  wonder  at  himself, 
Who  had  been  blind  so  long  to  every  charm 
Which  her  admiring  fancy  gave  his  home. 
Often  I  caught  them  standing  rapt  before 
Some  barbarous  portrait,  grim  with  early  art  — 
A  Gorgon,  to  a  nicely-balanced  eye, 
That  scarcely  hinted  at  humanity  ; 
Yet  they  would  crown  it  with  the  port  of  Jove, 
Make  every  wrinkle  an  heroic  scar, 
And  light  that  garbage  of  forgotten  times 


236  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

With  such  a  legendary  halo,  as  would  add 

Another  lustre  to  the  Golden  Book. 

At  first  the  children  pleased  me  ;  many  a  laugh, 

That  reddened  them,  I  owed  their  young  romance 

But  the  time  sped,  and  Giulia  ripened  too, 

Yet  would  not  deem  herself  the  less  a  child  ; 

And  when  I  clad  me  for  the  castle,  she 

Would  deck  herself  in  her  most  childish  gear, 

And  lay  her  hand  in  mine,  and  tranquilly 

Look  for  the  kindness  in  my  eyes.     She  called 

Odo  her  playfellow —  "  The  little  boy 

Who  showed  the  pictures,  and  the  blazoned  books, 

The  glittering  armor  and  the  oaken  screen, 

Grotesque  with  wry-faced  purgatorial  shapes 

Twisted  through  all  its  leaves  and  knotted  vines  ; 

And  the  grand,  solemn  window,  rich  with  forms 

Of  showy  saints  in  holiday  array 

Of  green,  gold,  red,  orange,  and  violet, 

With  the  pale  Christ,  who  towered  above  them  all, 

Dropping  a  ruby  splendor  from  his  side." 

She  told  how  "Odo  —  silly  child  !  —  would  try 

To  catch  the  window's  glare  upon  her  neck, 

Or  her  round  arms  ;"  and  how  "  the  flatterer  vowed 

The  gleam  upon  her  temple  seemed  to  pale 

Beside  the  native  color  of  her  cheek." 

Prattle  like  this  enticed  me  to  her  wish, 

Though  cooler  reason  shook  his  threatening  hand, 

And  counselled  flat  denial.     Till  at  length 

Ugo,  my  son,  stung  by  the  village  taunts 

Which  the  duke's  menials  had  set  going  round, 

Grew  sad  and  moody  with  an  inward  shame, 

That  soon  ran  over  in  a  wrathful  stream 

Of  most  unfilial  censure.     "  Look  you,  sir,"  — 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  237 

Beating  his  sword-hilt  with  his  furious  hand, 

Till  blade  and  scabbard  rang  like  clashing  brands  — 

"  This  never  shall  be  said !     By  Mary's  tears, 

I  '11  cleave  the  next  bold  slanderer  to  the  beard ! 

And  you,  sir  —  you  who  are  the  cause  of  it  — 

Look  that  your  house  be  stainless.     Breed  no  trulls 

For  your  liege  lord  ;  or,  if  you  needs  must  pimp, 

Look  further  from  your  home  !  "    Here  was  a  strait ! 

The  partial  justice  of  his  hot  rebuke 

Pardoned  its  disrespect,  and  sealed  my  lips 

Against  reproaches  :  so  I  stammered  out, 

"  Ugo,  you  rave."     "  Rave  !  only  look  to  it, 

Or  I  may  rave  in  action  !  "     Down  the  hall, 

Black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  he  swept  along, 

Darkening  the  way  before  him.     I  awoke. 

The  shameful  fear  stood  imminent ;  even  now 

Might  be  an  age  too  late.     But,  though  delayed, 

Duty  must  be  no  reckoner  of  time  ; 

An  act  good  once  is  good  forever.     So, 

When  Giulia  sought  me  for  the  usual  walk, 

I  put  her  tears  and  her  aside  together ; 

Not  sternly,  kindly,  but  inflexibly. 

Then  all  at  once  that  rapid  sorcerer, 

The  human  heart,  lit  a  new  light  within  her. 

Still  as  life  may  be,  flushed  from  brow  to  breast 

With  modest  scarlet,  by  my  side  she  paused, 

Tracing  the  mazes  of  bewildered  thoughts. 

I  turned  and  left  her  ;  yet  whene'er  I  stopped, 

And  cast  a  backward  glance,  fixed  as  before, 

Her  eyes  inverted  on  her  inner  self, 

And  all  her  senses  idle,  Giulia  stood, 

Seeming  her  own  excelling  counterfeit. 

Some  strange  thing  stirred  within  her,  that  was  plain ; 


238  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

So  I,  with  just  the  sapience  of  our  race, 

Set  my  poor  wits  to  reasoning  down  my  fears. 

Half  up  the  hill,  Count  Odo,  like  a  stag 

Lured  by  the  mimicked  bleating  of  his  doe, 

Burst  from  the  bushes,  and  before  me  stood 

With  such  a  wonder  as  the  antlered  king 

Must  feel  before  the  hunter.     Not  a  word 

Nor  sign  of  greeting  did  he  make  to  me  : 

One  flash  of  his  dark  eyes  along  the  path  — 

A  look  which  crossed  my  person  as  if  I 

Were  rock,  or  tree,  or  mere  transparent  air  — 

And  then  his  haughty  nature  towered  aloft, 

Magnificent  as  sunrise,  calm  as  fate. 

Back  through  the  thicket,  deigning  not  to  part 

The  netted  branches  with  his  hand,  he  strode, 

Wrapped  in  the  grandeur  of  his  boundless  pride. 

But  other  shapes  his  refluent  passion  took 

Ere  his  heart  settled  ;  for  the  servants  said 

The  house  became  a  bedlam.     In  his  wrath 

He  slashed  the  pictures  which  poor  Giulia  loved, 

Tore  up  the  missals,  hacked  the  carved  screen  ; 

And  with  his  impious  hand,  sheer  through  the  glass 

Of  the  great  window  —  through  the  very  Christ  — 

Hurled  a  great  oaken  settle,  overweight 

For  two  stout  yeomen.     Said  the  old  duke  naught  ? 

Yes,  merely  this  :  —  "  Let  all  the  pictures  hang, 

Spread  out  the  books,  cover  the  screen  no  more, 

Let  heaven  have  entrance  through  the  broken  panes : 

These  wrecks  shall  be  Count  Odo's  monuments  — 

The  guide-posts  pointing  him  to  better  things." 

And  he  was  wise.     Ugo  seemed  pleased  a  while  ; 

For  Giulia  was  dumb  about  the  castle. 

I  went  and  came,  but  never  saw  my  child 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  239 

Standing  upon  our  threshold  for  my  hand, 

As  in  days  past ;  and  when  Count  Odo's  name 

Came  up  at  table,  not  a  word  from  her, 

Who  once  would  leap,  like  lightning,  at  that  sound, 

And  bear  it  off  triumphant  from  our  lips, 

Ringing  his  praises  till  her  listeners  tired. 

Only,  at  times,  I  caught  a  shy,  quick  glance 

Of  bashful  cunning  glittering  in  her  eyes, 

As  covertly,  under  her  downcast  brows, 

She  shot  them  round  her.     Her  familiar  cares, 

The  usual  duties  of  our  small  abode, 

Were  duly  ordered.     Her  accustomed  walks, 

At  morn  and  evening,  through  the  forest  path, 

Whereon  she  sowed  her  little  charities 

Among  the  woodmen,  and  reaped  golden  stores 

Of  grateful  smiles,  were  taken  as  of  old. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  I  marked  a  peevish  haste 

When  aught  delayed  her,  and  a  curt  rebuff 

When  I  or  Ugo  proffered  company ; 

And  sometimes  from  these  walks  she  would  return 

With  something  heavy  at  her  heart,  a  grief 

That  often  rose  to  her  convulsed  lips, 

And  then  dropped  backward  to  her  heart  again. 

I  counted  this  a  shadow,  cast  on  her 

By  the  distressful  sights  of  poverty 

Within  the  forest ;  and  I  talked  at  large, 

In  the  smooth,  flowing  phrases  of  the  rich  — 

When  their  world-wide  philanthropy  unlocks 

The  liberal  mouth,  and  seals  the  pocket  up  : 

In  good  round  sentences  I  held  discourse 

On  the  huge  evils  of  our  social  state, 

And  theorized,  and  drew  fine  instances, 

Until  the  starving  beggar  at  my  door 


240  Tfis  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

Was  clean  forgotten.     I  cajoled  the  poor, 

I  flattered  them,  I  called  them  God's  own  care  : 

Asked  how  the  ravens  fed.     The  smitten  rock, 

The  quails  and  manna,  were  rare  figures :  thus 

I  shifted  all  the  burden  on  the  Lord, 

And  felt  the  lighter.       I  have  changed  since  then. 

My  daughter  listened  ;  but,  at  times,  I  feared 

Her  mind  was  far  away,  and  all  my  words 

Buzzed  in  her  ears,  like  a  crone's  spinning-wheel, 

That  only  chimes  in  with  her  vagrant  thoughts, 

Unheard  until  the  slighted  threads  divide, 

And  startle  her  with  silence.     Giulia,  thus, 

Would  rise  with  something  like  a  guilty  pang, 

And  busy  her  about  the  household  work, 

Leaving  my  words  unquestioned.     So  things  went, 

Till  generous  autumn  shook  his  jolly  torch 

Around  the  land,  and  seared  the  rusty  grass, 

And   scorched  the  trees,  and  shook  their  fruitage 

down, 

And  piled  the  dripping  wains  with  purple  grapes, 
And  turned  the  year  into  a  jubilee. 
Then  Ugo  in  all  sadness  came  to  me, 
Flushed  with  the  chase,  yet  redder  dyed  with  shame, 
And  in  the  pauses  of  his  sighs  told  this  : 
A  wounded  boar,  flying  before  his  spear, 
Forsook  the  closer  covert  of  the  wood, 
And,  mad  with  terror,  harrowed  through  the  glades, 
Trailing  his  life  behind  him.     Towards  the  town, 
Followed  by  Ugo  and  his  baying  hounds, 
The  forest  ruffian  sped  ;  but  when  the  dogs 
Laid  their  hot  muzzles  to  his  straining  flank, 
Into  the  open  road  he  plunged  amain, 
And  scoured  the  peaceful  pathway.   Naught  availed ; 
His  shadow  kept  not  closer  than  the  pack. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  241 

His  strength  gave  way,  and  Ugo's  crusted  spear 

Again  was  busy  in  his  bristling  side  ; 

When,  swerving  from  a  blow,  with  sudden  dart 

He  cleared  the  road,  drove  through  a  copse  of  oaks, 

And  Ugo  heard  a  woman  scream.     0  joy  ! 

0  sorrow  !  turning  what  we  take  as  joy 
Into  thy  own  sad  likeness,  how  is  man 
Balanced  between  ye  !     And  what  heart  may  say 
"  This  thing  is  pleasure/'  till  its  fleeting  sense 
Be  past  and  gone  forever  ?     Ugo  stood, 

As  if  Medusa  stared  him  in  the  face, 
Breast-high  amid  the  coppice  ;  and  beheld 
Beneath  a  patriarchal  oak  Count  Odo  stand, 
With  one  strong  hand  upholding  Giulia, 
While  in  the  other  flashed  his  wary  brand, 
Cutting  and  thrusting  at  the  desperate  boar. 

DUKE  ODO. 

1  passed  that  spot,  threading  the  forest  path, 
An  isle  of  greensward  in  a  sea  of  leaves  ; 

"  Here,"  cried  I,  gazing  on  a  stricken  oak 

Whose    mouldering    remnants    told    of    greatness 

gone,  — 

"  Here  the  avenging  hand  of  God  has  struck, 
In  lightning  and  in  thunder  reaching  down  ! 
Yon  ghastly  culprit,  lopped  of  every  limb, 
His  bark  curled  upward  in  a  hundred  scrolls, 
His  fruitless  acorns  filled  with  barren  dust, 
Points  to  a  crime  as  clearly  advertised 
As  if  a  herald  blew  it  to  the  wind." 
My  thought  was  just ;  two  hearts  were  here  betrayed 
While  heaven  was  near  them.     But  did  Ugo  leave 
These  hapless  children  to  the  raging  beast  ? 
VOL.  n.  16 


242  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

PODESTA. 

Help  was  not  needed.     Ugo's  hunter  eye 

Saw  in  that  hand  a  weapon  overmatch 

For  a  bayed  boar,  without  the  hounds  that  hung 

Still  tugging  at  the  monster's  brindled  haunch  : 

So,  undiscovered,  from  the  wood  he  turned, 

And  bore  the  heavy  secret  home  to  me. 

Why  rage  did  not  o'ercome  him  in  that  hour, 

Why  he,  in  wonted  fury,  did  not  slay 

The  two  together,  is  heaven's  mystery. 

Shame  —  loathful,  cruel,  degrading,  abject  shame  — 

That  quite  unmanned  him,  this  alone  was  his  ; 

No  thought  of  vengeance.    "  She  may  yet  be  pure," 

Said  Ugo  ;  and  the  misery  of  a  thought 

That  dared  suppose  her  other  bowed  his  head, 

Crimson  with  meaning,  to  his  outstretched  palm. 

"  If  she  is  not,  Count  Odo  lives  one  hour  ; " 

And  he  glanced  sideways  at  the  horologe. 

Soon  Giulia  came  ;  our  fears  might  breathe  a  while. 

She  heard  with  patience,  and  replied  with  tears, 

Heightening  her  fault,  and  taking  Odo's  blame. 

"  The  guilt  is  mine,"  she  said  ;  "  I  met  him  still : 

I  staid  not  to  be  wooed,  I  went  for  it. 

I  knew  it  to  be  wicked,  but  I  bore 

The  crime  for  its  strange  sweetness.     Woe  is  me  I 

That  sin  has  bounties,  while  poor  virtue  starves." 

I  reasoned  with  her,  setting  love  aside, 

That  young  Count  Odo  never  could  be  hers  ; 

I  showed  the  gulf  between  our  wide  estates  ; 

I  said  a  dukedom  could  not  wed  a  plot 

Of  narrow  acres  ;  and  I  raised  a  fear 

Of  dismal  vengeance,  from  the  old  duke's  hand, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  243 

Upon  my  head.     Count  Odo,  even  he, 

Treated  with  justice  merely,  must  endure 

Some  direful  grief.     At  this  she  blanched  and  shook. 

I  balanced  chances  with  the  nicest  art : 

"  What  if  the  duke  consent,  would  Odo  too  — 

That  hot,  proud  boy,  who  from  his  regal  height 

Looks,  like  an  eagle,  down  upon  the  world  — 

Would  he  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  lead  such  a  bride  as  you  — 

A  new  Giralda  —  to  the  altar-stone  ? 

Why,  child,  the  pathway  between  home  and  church 

Would  show  more  perils  than  the  Cretan  maze." 

Then  I  advised  her.     "  Daughter,  be  content 

With    heaven's    appointment  ;     humbly    walk    the 

ground, 

Nor  fly  your  fancies  where  you  cannot  follow ; 
He  is  as  far  above  you  as  the  stars." 
This  she  believed  ;  naught  was  too  high  for  him, 
Nothing  too  low  for  her,  compared  with  him. 
But  when  I  named  the  danger  of  such  Iove8> 
How  reason  can  be  melted  in  the  glow 
Of  tempted  passion  ;  when  I  almost  spoke 
In  broad,  blunt  terms,  as  Ugo  spoke  to  me  — 
So  hard  it  was  to  make  my  meaning  clear  — 
All  the  proud  innocence  of  woman's  soul 
Bounded  aloft  in  dreadful  majesty  ; 
And  such  indignant  eloquence  outburst, 
At  the  gross  taunt,  that  I,  by  helpless  signs> 
Was  glad  to  beg  her  mercy.     Well,  the  end 
Of  this  long  tossing  to  and  fro  of  words 
Was  that  my  daughter,  bowing  to  my  will 
With  that  obedience  she  had  ever  shown, 
Promised  to  shun  Count  Odo  from  that  hour. 
She  kept  her  faith  ;  though  Odo  came  by  day 


244  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

With  missions  from  the  castle  that  outsummed 

His  several  hairs,  and  were  of  less  respect ; 

Though,  in  the  evening,  I  have  seen  his  form 

Skirting  the  roadside  where  my  daughter  took 

Her  silent  walk  with  Ugo  ;  though  the  night, 

From  nocturns  unto  cock-crow,  could  not  rest 

For  the  unceasing  tinkle  of  his  lute, 

And  such  faint  scraps  of  doleful  melody 

As  he  might  venture  with  his  trembling  voice. 

Now  a  new  fear  began.     His  father's  eyes 

Could  not  have  missed  Count  Odo's  altered  ways  ; 

And  soon  dread  proof  was  given  of  what  a  man, 

Good  in  all  else,  would  forfeit  to  uphold 

The  perilled  lustre  of  his  heritage. 

Ugo  and  Giulia,  in  a  lonesome  place, 

By  a  masked  ruffian  were  assailed  ;  and  though 

Both  mask  and  sweeping  cloak  gave  Ugo  odds 

Against  the  villain,  there  was  stirring  work, 

And  wounds  on  both  sides.     Had  not  Giulia's  voice, 

Shrieking  in  terror  at  the  bloody  sight, 

Prevailed  more  surely  than  brave  Ugo's  sword, 

Heaven    knows    what    purpose    might    have    been 

achieved. 

The  vintage  came,  with  it  the  festival ; 
And,  strange  to  say,  Duke  Odo  left  his  books, 
To  throw  a  chilling  stiffness  on  the  dance 
With  his  unusual  presence.     How  my  heart 
Shrank  into  nothing,  when  the  aged  duke, 
Tottering  along  the  greensward,  slowly  came 
Before  my  daughter,  and,  with  gallant  words, 
Lightly  among  the  dancers  led  my  child. 
"  Ugo,"  I  whispered,  "in  the  name  of  heaven, 
Stand  near  your  sister  —  hear  the  duke's  discourse  — 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHfER.  245 

Perhaps  he  '11  traffic  in  his  son's  behalf. 

That  girl  is  doomed  past  saving !  "     Ugo  said, 

"  Let  him  but  trade  with  me  ;  I  '11  name  a  price 

To  stagger  his  whole  dukedom  !  "     By  and  by, 

With  smiles  and  nods  and  gentle  courtesies, 

The  duke  returned  to  me.     I  almost  snatched 

My  startled  daughter  from  his  outstretched  hand  ; 

And  as  the  rustics  cheered  him  to  his  horse, 

Through  the  confusion,  on  the  wings  of  fear, 

I  fled  with  Giulia  ;  nor  till  bolt  and  bar 

Rang  in  their  sockets,  and  I  saw  the  spear 

And  rusted  sword  I  bore  a  while  in  Spain, 

Felt  I  the  safer.     Ugo  came  behind : 

He  had  heard  nothing  but  the  common  talk 

'Twixt  high  and  humble  :  — questions  from  the  duke, 

And  meek  replies  from  Giulia.     Once,  indeed, 

He  wheeled  his  ponderous  learning  slowly  round 

To  bear  upon  her  knowledge  ;  and  seemed  pleased 

To  find  she  knew  this  planet  is  a  sphere, 

Gold  not  a  salt,  and  spirit  not  a  substance  ; 

That  nature's  movements  are  through  various  laws, 

Diverse,  and  yet  harmonious.     But  when  she, 

Radiant  with  faith,  proclaimed  the  central  light, 

Without  which  reason  were  a  helpless  drudge, 

From  which,  and  to  which,  all  creation  flows, 

And  called  it  God,  —  ah  !  there  her  soul  had  flown 

A  league  beiyond  his  books  ;  and  from  that  thought 

The  fool  and  the  philosopher  might  start 

On  equal  ground.     The  duke  was  still  a  while. 

Then  they  talked  o'er  the  poets  :  —  Petrarch's  love, 

And  Laura's  coyness,  Tasso's  holy  war, 

And  the  stupendous  Florentine.     Just  here 

The  duke's  smiles  grew  most  fatherly,  and  here 


2iO  THE    PODESTA  S    DAUGHTER. 

The  dance  was  ended.     "  Saw  you  not/'  said  Ugo, 

"  Count  Odo  join  his  father  near  the  wood  ?" 

"In  good  faith,  no  !  "     That  question  had  upset 

My  growing  confidence.     "  Some  plot  is  here  — 

Some  plot  to  be  outplotted."     "  Have  her  wed  — 

Ay,  wed  her  to  a  clod,  a  slave,  a  beast  — 

To  anything  that  can  be  made  a  groom  ; 

But  keep  her  honest !  "  Ugo  shouted  forth. 

"  A  wise  thought !    Call  your  sister."     Giulia  came. 

A  little  hope  was  fluttering  in  her  heart, 

And  warming  one  small  spot  on  either  cheek ; 

That  died  away  and  never  woke  again, 

At  my  first  sentence.    "  Marry  I"  —  she  was  firm  — 

"  Not  all  that  cowards  fear  —  not  all  the  pangs 

This  groaning  earth  has  borne  since  man  left  Eden  — • 

Not  all  the  cheating  baits  of  fruitful  sense  — 

Ambition's  crown,* toil's  gain,  fame's  tainted  breath — 

Not  all  the  spirit  dreams  of  future  bliss  — 

No,  nor  the  dictate  of  the  holy  church  — 

The  Pope's  commandment,  barbed  with  every  ill 

That  may  be  thundered  from  Saint  Peter's  chair  — 

Should  fright,  bribe,  master,  or  so  far  corrupt 

The  heart  which  God  assigned  her  to  keep  pure  !  " 

She  spoke  this  with  her  virgin  eyes  aflame, 

Blazing  like  Mars  when  he  has  clomb  the  sky, 

And  looks  down  hotly  from  his  sovereign  height. 

I  talked  to  her  until  the  daylight  wore, 

And  evening  lent  its  pathos  to  my  words, 

Of  what  a  daughter  owes  a  parent's  love  — 

And  I  had  been  both  parents  joined  in  one ; 

Of  the  great  blessing  which  her  mother  laid 

Upon  her  infant's  forehead,  as  she  stood 

Upon  the  verge  of  Paradise,  and  saw, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  24? 

Forward  and  backward,  heaven  and  earth  at  once. 

Would  she  be  false  to  that  ?     Move  saintly  eyes  ; 

And  wet  the  golden  floor  of  heaven  with  tears  ? 

I  showed  the  duke's  omnipotent  command ; 

The  long  and  sweeping  arm  of  potentates  ; 

The  feeble  shield  of  justice,  when  the  voice 

Of  poor,  oppressed  humanity  is  drowned 

In  the  loud  roar  of  an  impending  doom. 

I  made  my  gray  hairs  plead  to  her.     I  talked 

Of  Ugo's  blighted  prospect,  and  the  fate 

Which  hung  above  us,  sure  to  fall  at  last ; 

Talked  till  my  passion  worked  me  into  tears, 

And  she  gave  way  —  not  slowly,  all  at  once, 

With  desperate  haste.    "  Do  with  me  what  you  will ; 

But,  0  !  in  pity,  get  me  to  my  grave 

As  soon  as  may  be.     Life  is  wearying  me  ; 

I  would  have  rest  from  that  which  is  within," 

Said  Giulia ;  and  her  shaking  hand  she  laid, 

With  a  low,  plaintive  sob,  upon  her  heart. 

I  offered  comfort.     "  You  shall  not  be  wed  "  — 

"No,  by  the  saints  !  "  roared  Ugo,  bursting  through 

A  flood  of  running  tears.     "  Only,  my  child, 

We  '11   meet  their   arts  with   arts.      We  '11   gossip 

round 

That  thou  hast  been  betrothed.    Some  village  beau  — 
Florio,  thy  cousin,  will  be  proud  of  it  — 
Shall  be  a  frequent  suitor  at  my  house  ; 
And  he  shall  be  thy  company  to  mass  — 
He  '11  spread  thy  cushion  with  a  tender  care, 
I  warrant  me  !  "  and  then  I  tried  to  laugh. 
"  Why,  here  's  a  plot  to  found  a  play  upon  !  — 
Thou  didst  like  Florio."     "  I  shall  hate  him  now," 
Giulia  replied  ;  and  her  eyes  glared  at  me 


248  THE    PODESTA'd    DAUGHTER. 

With  steely  lustre,  a  blank  outer  light. 

"  Give  me  but  time.     Just  lead  the  duke  astray 

Until  I  put  my  goods  in  proper  trim, 

And  we  will  fly  the  country,  and  his  wrath, 

If  nothing  better  offer."     Giulia  raised 

The  hollow  spectre  of  a  long-lost  smile, 

And  went  her  way. 

DUKE  ODO. 
There  was  a  murder  done  ! 

PODESTA. 

It  may  be,  signer  ;  but  my  acts  were  squared, 
Both  to  my  daughter's  interest  and  the  duke's, 
As  well  as  my  poor  judgment  would  allow. 

DUKE    ODO. 

Forgive  my  comment,  and  resume  the  tale. 

PODESTA. 

The  rumored  marriage  reached  Count  Odo's  ears. 

'T  was  said,  at  first,  he  doubted  ;  but  his  pride, 

Now  he  was  older,  and  held  firmer  rein 

Above  his  passions,  did  not  vent  itself 

In  chilling  looks  and  following  agonies  : 

The  pictures,  books,  screen,  window,  well  had  taught 

Their  storied  lesson.     Marble  calmness  now, 

A  mien  that  never  altered  with  the  times, 

Was  his  high  state.     But  when  the  rumor  grew 

A  settled  matter,  and  the  people  talked  ' 

Of  Florio  and  Giulia  in  one  breath, 

Coupling  their  names  as  if  they  could  not  part, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  249 

Count  Odo  kindled.     In  a  forest-path 

He  came  on  Florio.     Face  to  face  they  stood. 

Florio  in  terror,  and  the  scornful  eyes 

Of  Odo  ranging  him  from  head  to  foot. 

He  spoke  at  last :  "  Florio,"  —  his  voice  was  soft 

As  the  south  wind  —  "  Florio,  the  world  has  said 

You  are  betrothed  to  Giulia  ;  is  it  true  ?  " 

Then  the  habitual  lie  was  stammered  forth. 

A  while  Count  Odo's  hand  upon  his  sword 

Hung,  like  a  mountain  pard  upon  the  spring, 

And  the  long  veins  went  twisting  through  his  neck, 

Swollen  with  torture  ;  but  some  power  within 

Wrested,  the  clenched  hand  sharply  from  the  sword, 

And  his  face  calmed,  and  a  most  lordly  smile 

Lit  up  his  features,  as  he  cried  aloud, 

In  strong,  firm  accents,  as  a  martyr  might  — 

"  God  bless  you,  Florio  !  "  and  burst  in  tears. 

'T  was  the  old  fight  twixt  heaven  and  hell  renewed, 

And,  as  of  old,  the  battle-field  was  pitched 

Within  the  heart  of  man.     Count  Odo  left 

Ere  Florio  could  catch  his  scattered  thoughts. 

On  the  next  day  a  blare  of  trumpets  woke 

The  drowsy  village,  in  scarce  time  to  see 

The  rearward  horsemen  of  a  warlike  band 

Vanish  within  the  forest.     Some  one  said, 

"That  is  Count  Odo  riding  to  the  wars." 

The  wars  have  gone  against  us  :  since  that  day 

Thousands  of  hostile  spears  have  ever  lain 

Between  Count  Odo  and  his  distant  home. 

Sometimes  for  years  in  cities  he  was  pent, 

Sometimes  in  adverse  battles  he  engaged, 

Sometimes  he  skirmished  through  a  long  retreat, 

Hanging  between  the  enemy's  flushed  van 


250  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  the  down-hearted  soldiers  of  our  rear  ; 
But  never  has  a  rumor  of  his  name  — 
For  the  foe  barred  direct  intelligence  — 
Reached  us  uncoupled  from  the  words  of  praise. 
His  father  died  — 

DUKE    ODO. 

And  knew  not  the  deceit  ? 

PODESTA. 

How  could  he  know  ?     He  died  before  my  child, 

Pining,  'twas  whispered,  for  his  absent  son. 

Within  a  month  poor  Giulia  followed  him. 

I  can  recall  the  time  as  yesterday. 

A  low  fog  lay  upon  the  sodden  land, 

And  on  my  spirits  ;  from  the  sluggish  clouds, 

That  trailed  their  ragged  skirts  along  the  hills, 

Thick,  moody  showers  were  falling  now  and  then  ; 

And  when  they  ceased,  the  poplars,  drop  by  drop, 

Kept  their  sad  chime  awake  upon  the  roof. 

Since  Odo  left  us,  Giulia  had  walked 

Her  birth-place  like  a  stranger.     All  the  world, 

Its  sights  of  beauty  clustering  round  her  feet, 

And  all  the  mystery  that  hung  above 

In  the  deep  blue  of  heaven,  seemed  alien  now  ; 

Their  power  and  their  significance  were  gone. 

The  sun  burnt  out  before  her  like  a  torch 

Before  a  blind  girl,  and  within  her  sight 

The  brightest  moon  was  blurred  by  dim  eclipse. 

She  seemed  forever  lost  in  solemn  thoughts  : 

Yet  when  we  questioned  what  she  mused  upon, 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  and  I  believed  it  true  ; 

For  strongest  grief  is  thoughtless,  and  retains 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  251 

Only  a  stupid  sense  of  pain,  no  form, 

Or  else  we  should  go  mad.     TJgo,  the  while, 

Softened  his  nature  to  a  woman's  ways, 

And  through  the  house  he  went,  with  silent  speed, 

Forestalling  Giulia  in  her  wonted  cares  ; 

Or  in  the  garden-walk  some  flower  she  loved, 

In  happier  times,  he  planted  full  of  bloom, 

And  smiled  to  see  her  bending  o'er  the  bush, 

Even  with  her  vacant  eyes  :  but  I  have  marked, 

When  thus  her  memory  stirred,  the  flower  was  wet 

With  other  drops  than  morning's.     As  the  year 

Rounded  to  winter,  Giulia's  cheek  assumed 

A  kindred  color  with  the  falling  leaf, 

And  her  eyes  brightened,  and  her  thin  white  hands 

Grew  thinner  yet,  her  footstep  lost  its  spring, 

And  life  seemed  beating  a  slow-paced  retreat 

From  all  its  outposts.    Just  before  the  day  — 

The  irksome,  dismal  day  —  of  which  I  spoke, 

She  looked  as  if  her  frame  had  suddenly 

Crumbled  away  beneath  her,  though  its  life 

Still  haunted  round  her  heart.     She  knew  her  state, 

And  called  us  to  her.     "  Father,  first  to  you, 

I  have  no  blame,  nothing  but  thanks  to  give, 

And  dying  blessings.     Ugo,  so  to  you, 

Who  bore  the  wayward  tricks  of  my  disease 

With  so  much  kindness,  such  unfaltering  love  !  "  — 

God  bless  her,  she  was  patient  as  a  saint !  — 

"  I  do  not  ask  the  motives  of  your  acts  ; 

For,  since  you  chose  them,  they  must  be  the  best, 

I  have  one  word  to  leave  behind  me  —  hark  ! 

I  loved  Count  Odo,  and  I  die  for  it. 

This  ring,  which  slides  about  my  finger  so, 

He  gave  me  once  —  pray  bury  it  with  me. 


252  THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

But  I  beseech  you  —  ay,  you  promise  me 

Before  I  ask  it ;  that  is  very  kind  — 

If  Odo  should  return,  to  make  him  know 

That  I  by  deed,  or  word,  or  sign,  or  thought, 

Was  never  false  to  him.     And  tell  him,  too, 

Into  the  grave,  with  this  one  pledge  of  love, 

I  go  rejoicing  ;  and  he  '11  see  it  shine 

Upon  my  finger  thus  in  Paradise. 

Odo,  dear  Odo  —  father  —  brother  —  God, 

Have  mercy  on  me !  "     And  she  closed  her  eyes, 

Shutting  the  world  forever  from  her  sight.  — 

Soldier,  you  weep ! 

DUKE  ODO. 

Weep  !  am  I  stone,  old  man  ? 
0  shallow  reason  !     0  deep  heart  of  youth  ! 
What  fearful  issue  has  your  conflict  wrought ! 
0  father,  blinder  than  the  burrowing  mole, 
To  trust  the  mere  deductions  of  your  brain 
Before  the  holy  instincts  of  that  love 
Which,  like  a  second  revelation,  God 
Has  founded  on  our  nature  !     0,  false  pride  ! 
Dark,  sensual  demon,  that  would  rather  writhe 
An  age  of  agony  than  ope  thy  lips  — 
Curse  to  thyself,  and  curse  to  thy  possessor  — 
0,  hadst  thou  slept  one  moment,  what  a  flood 
Of  golden  sunshine  happy  love  had  poured 
Upon  the  desert  darkness  of  two  hearts  ! 
Old  man,  old  man,  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  know  what  narrow  mists,  what  threads  of  will, 
Divide  a  life  of  full,  contented  bliss 
From  years  of  starved  and  utter  misery  ; 
How  near  our  guideless  feet  may  be  to  one, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  253 

Yet  choose  the  other !     Had  a  bare  distrust 

Of  your  presuming  wisdom  crossed  your  mind  — 

Had  Odo  come  to  you  with  candid  heart, 

And  interchanged  frank  questions  and  replies — 

She  who  is  mouldering  here  might  still  have  bloomed 

To  fragrant  ripeness,  and  we  fools,  who  stand 

Watering  the  relics  of  our  own  misdeeds, 

Might  not  be  mourners.     Woe  to  us,  blind  men, 

We  knit  the  meshes  that  ensnare  ourselves  ! 

Now  hear  your  story  closed  by  other  lips. 

Who  was  the  masked  assassin  of  your  child  ?  — 

Count  Odo,  mad  with  the  romantic  wish 

To  rescue  Giulia :  he  it  was  who  fought 

With  stubborn  Ugo,  burning  with  a  flame 

As  high  as  that  which  lighted  chivalry. 

Why  came  Duke  Odo  to  the  festival  ?  — 

To  prove  your  daughter  worthy  of  his  son  ; 

And  found  her  so,  beyond  his  topmost  hope, 

And  would  have  crowned  her  with  a  diadem, 

Holding  the  trinket  honored  ! 

PODESTA. 

Gracious  heaven  1 
And  who  are  you  ? 

DUKE  ODO. 

Count  Odo.     Do  not  stir : 
From  this  grave  hence,  our  paths  lie  far  apart. 

[Exit.] 


THE   IVORY   CARVER. 


PROLOGUE. 

THREE  spirits,  more  than  angels,  met 

By  an  Arabian  well-side,  set 

Far  in  the  wilderness,  a  place 

Hallowed  by  legendary  grace. 

Here  the  hair-girded  Baptist,  John, 

Had  thrown  his  wearied  being  down, 

And  dreamed  the  grand  prophetic  lore 

Of  what  the  future  held  in  store ; 

And  here  our  patient  Christ  had  knelt, 

After  the  baffled  devil  felt 

The  terrors  of  his  stern  reproof, 

And,  gazing  through  the  rifted  roof 

Of  palm,  had  childlike  sobbed  and  prayed 

His  soul  to  calmness  ;  here  allayed 

The  mortal  thirst  which  raged  within, 

Then  turned,  and  all  our  world  of  sin 

Uplifted  on  his  shoulders  vast, 

And  forth  to  toil,  shame,  death,  he  passed. 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  255 

A  holy  place  the  spirits  chose 

For  blest  communion  ;  but  the  woes 

Which  follow  sin  had  left  a  trace 

Of  gloom  on  each  angelic  face  :  — 

Man's  sin,  the  only  grief  which  mars 

The  joy  of  heaven,  and  sadly  jars 

With  its  eternal  harmony. 

One,  chief  among  the  spirits  three, 

Grander  than  either,  more  sedate, 

Wore  yet  a  look  of  hope  elate 

With  higher  knowledge,  larger  trust 

In  the  long  future  ;  and  the  rust 

Of  week-day  toil  with  earthly  things 

Stained  and  yet  glorified  his  wings. 

"0,  woe  !  "  exclaimed  the  spirits  twain, 

"  Time  comes,  time  goes,  and  still  the  train 

Of  human  sin  keeps  pace  with  it. 

The  seasons  change,  the  shadows  flit 

Across  the  world,  tides  ebb  and  flow, 

But  human  guilt  and  human  woe 

Are  ever  stirring  in  the  blood, 

Are  ever  fixed  at  their  full  flood. 

Alas  !  alas  !  alas  !  even  we, 

Poised  in  our  calm  eternity, 

Can  only  see  new  changes  bring 

New  forms  of  sin.     The  offering 

To  death  and  hell  is  overstored, 

Heaven  's  poor ;  and  yet  the  patient  Lord 

Bears  with  mankind  for  mankind's  sake. 

Shall  never  vengeful  thunders  wake 

Among  earth's  crashing  hills,  and  bare 

The  horrid  lightning  in  his  lair  ? 


256  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

Shall  never  the  tornado  sweep, 
The  earthquake  yawn,  the  rebel  deep 
Scour  the  rich  valleys,  till  the  world  — 
Back  into  early  chaos  hurled, 
With  all  her  pomps  and  grandeurs  rent  — 
Though  barren,  may  be  innocent  ?  " 
"  Never !     The  sign  is  set  on  high, 
'Twixt  sunny  earth  and  weeping  sky  : 
One  tittle  of  the  spoken  Word 
All  hell  can  change  not,"  said  the  third. 
"Patience,  dear  brothers:  ye  who  ask 
Quick,  sweeping  changes,  set  a  task 
Beyond  earth's  power.    She  slowly  draws, 
By  due  procession  of  her  laws, 
Good  out  of  evil.     In  the  ground, 
Dark  and  ill-featured,  seeds  abound, 
Trees  grow  and  blossom,  and  the  flower 
Buds  into  fruit ;  yet,  hour  by  hour, 
No  change  we  mark,  until  the  fruit 
Drops  down  full-ripened.     Let  us  suit 
Our  hopes  to  man.     The  child  of  clay 
Through  his  own  nature  wins  his  way ; 
Moving  by  slow  and  homely  means 
Towards  the  blind  future,  he  but  gleans 
Behind  your  wide  intelligence, 
Leaping  the  stumbling  bars  of  sense. 
Full  armed  with  bounden  wealth  of  thought 
.Ye  stand,  and  wonder  at  man's  naught ; 
Scorn  his  poor  ways  and  sluggish  rate, 
Rather  than  gratulate  the  state, 
Uncramped  by  narrow  time  and  space, 
In  which  ye  move.     Ye  face  to  face 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  25t 

See  all  things  as  they  are,  he  sees 

By  dim  reflection  ;  for  the  lees 

Of  earth  have  settled  in  his  soul, 

And  made  a  turbid  current  roll 

Between  his  mind  and  essence.     Yet 

Even  earthly  natures  may  beget 

Grand  ends,  and  common  things  be  wrought 

To  holiest  uses.     I  in  thought 

Have  seen  the  capability 

Which  lies  within  yon  ivory :  — 

This  rough,  black  husk,  charred  by  long  age, 

Unmarked  by  man  since,  in  his  rage, 

A  warring  mammoth  shed  it.     Lo  ! 

Whiter  than  heaven-sifted  snow, 

Enclosed  within  its  ugly  mask 

Lies  a  world's  wonder  ;  and  the  task 

Of  slow  development  shall  be 

Man's  labor  and  man's  glory.     See  !  " 

His  foot-tip  touched  it ;  the  rude  bone 

Glowed  through  translucent,  widely  shone 

A  morning  lustre  on  the  palm 

Which  arched  above  it.     All  the  calm 

Of  the  blue  air  was  stirred  again 

With  ecstasy,  as  the  low  strain 

Of  heavenly  language  rose  once  more. 

"  Genius  of  man,  immortal  power, 

Of  birth  celestial,  't  is  thy  hour  ! 

The  doors  of  heaven  wide  open  swing 

One  moment.     Hasten,  ere  thy  wing 

Be  locked  within  the  lucid  wall, 

And  darkness  for  dull  ages  fall 

On  earth  and  man,  our  common  care  !  " 

While  yet  his  accents  filled  the  air 

VOL.    II.  11 


258  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

Which  rippled  on  the  heavenly  shore, 
A  fourth  intelligence,  who  bore 
The  semblance  of  a  flickering  flame, 
Steep  downward  from  the  zenith  came, 
Dazzling  the  path  behind  him.     Still, 
Waiting  the  greater  angel's  will, 
He  rested  quivering.     "  Spirit,  bear 
This  ivory  to  the  soul  that  dare 
Work  out,  through  joy,  and  care,  and  pain, 
The  thought  which  lies  within  the  grain, 
Hid  like  a  dim  and  clouded  sun.  — 
Speed  thee  ! "     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done. 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  259 


THE    IVOEY    CARVER. 

SILENTLY  sat  the  artist  alone, 

Carving  a  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone. 

Little  by  little,  with  toil  and  pain, 

He  won  his  way  through  the  sightless  grain, 

That  held  and  yet  hid  the  thing  he  sought, 

Till  the  work  stood  up,  a  growing  thought. 

And  all  around  him,  unseen  yet  felt, 

A  mystic  presence  forever  dwelt, 

A  formless  spirit  of  subtle  flame, 

The  light  of  whose  being  went  and  came 

As  the  artist  paused  from  work,  or  bent 

His  whole  heart  to  it  with  firm  intent. 

Serenely  the  spirit  towered  on  high, 

Fixing  the  blaze  of  his  majesty 

Now  north,  now  south,  now  east,  now  west : 

Wherever  the  moody  shadows  pressed 

Their  cloudy  blackness,  and  slyly  sought 

To  creep  o'er  the  work  the  artist  wrought, 

A  steady  wrath  in  the  spirit's  gaze 

Withered  the  skirts  of  the  treacherous  haze, 

And  gloomily  backward,  fold  on  fold, 

The  surging  billows  of  darkness  rolled. 

"Husband,  why  sit  you  ever  alone, 
Carving  your  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone  ? 


260  THE   IVORY   CARVER. 

0  carve,  I  pray  you,  some  fairy  ships, 

Or  rings  for  the  weaning  infant's  lips, 

Or  toys  for  yon  princely  boy  who  stands 

Knee-deep  in  the  bloom  of  his  father's  lands, 

And  waits  for  his  idle  thoughts  to  come  ; 

Or  carve  the  sword-hilt,  or  merry  drum, 

Or  the  flaring  edge  of  a  curious  can, 

Fit  for  the  lips  of  a  bearded  man  ; 

With  vines  and  grapes  in  a  cunning  wreath, 

Where  the  peering  satyrs  wink  beneath, 

And  catch  around  quaintly-knotted  stems 

At  flying  nymphs  by  their  garment  hems. 

And  carve  you  another  inner  rim  ; 

Let  girls  hang  over  the  goblet's  brim, 

And  dangle  in  wine  their  white  foot-tips  ; 

While  crouched  on  their  palms,  with  pouting  lips, 

Long-bearded  Pan  and  his  panting  troop 

In  the  golden  waves  their  faces  stoop. 

0  carve  you  something  of  solid  worth  — 

Leave  heaven  to  heaven,  come,  earth,  to  earth. 

Carve  that  thy  hearth-stone  may  glimmer  bright, 

And  thy  children  laugh  in  dancing  light." 

Steadily  answered  the  carver's  lips, 

As  he  brushed  from  his  brow  the  ivory  chips  ;  — 

While  the  presence  grew  with  the  rising  sound, 

Spurning  in  grandeur  the  hollow  ground, 

As  if  the  breath  on  the  carver's  tongue 

Were  fumes  from  some  precious  censer  swung, 

That  lifted  the  spirit's  winged  soul 

To  the  heights  where  crystal  planets  roll 

Their  choral  anthems,  and  heaven's  wide  arch 

Is  thrilled  with  the  music  of  their  march  ; 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  261 

And  the  faithless  shades  fled  backward,  dim 
From  the  wondrous  light  that  lived  in  him.  — 
Thus  spake  the  carver,  —  his  words  were  few, 
Simple  and  meek,  but  he  felt  them  true,  — 
"  I  labor  by  day,  I  labor  by  night ; 
The  Master  ordered,  the  work  is  right : 
Pray  that  He  strengthen  my  feeble  good  ; 
For  much  must  be  conquered,  much  withstood." 
The  artist  labored,  the  labor  sped, 
But  a  corpse  lay  in  his  bridal  bed. 

Wearily  worked  the  artist  alone, 
As  his  tears  ran  down  the  ivory  bone ; 
And  the  presence  lost  its  wonted  glow, 
For  its  trembling  heart  was  beating  low, 
And  the  stealthy  shadows  came  crawling  in, 
With  the  silent  tread  of  a  flattered  sin  ; 
Till  the  spirit  fled  to  the  Christ's  own  face, 
Like  a  hunted  man  to  a  place  of  grace  ; 
On  the  crown,  the  death-wrung  eye,  the  tear, 
On  the  placid  triumph,  faint  yet  clear, 
That  trembled  around  the  mouth  ;  and  last 
On  the  fatal  wound,  its  brightness  passed, 
Shrinking  low  down  in  the  horrid  scar, 
And  flickering  there  like  a  waning  star. 
Slowly  he  labored  with  drooping  head, 
For  the  artist's  heart  from  his  work  had  fled. 
He  moaned,  he  muttered  his  lost  one's  name, 
He  looked  on  the  Christ  with  a  look  of  shame ; 
He  called,  he  listened,  no  voice  replied  ; 
He  prayed  her  to  come  again,  and  chide 
The  hateful  work  which  his  hand  began  ; 
He  promised  ships,  rings,  toys,  drinking-can. 


262  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

With  level  stare,  through  the  thickening  shade, 

Hither  and  thither  his  eye-balls  strayed  ; 

But  ne'er  turned  upward  where,  just  above, 

A  single  star  with  a  look  of  love  — 

Divine,  supernal,  transcending  sense  — 

Shone  on  him  a  splendor  so  intense 

That  it  half  replaced  the  spirit's  light, 

And  thwarted  the  leaguering  bands  of  night. 

Albeit  he  did  not  see  the  star, 

Sense  is  not  a  perfect  pass  nor  bar 

To  the  mystic  steps  of  love  ;  his  heart 

Felt  a  dumb  stir  through  its  chillest  part, 

Felt  a  warm  glow  through  its  currents  run, 

And  knew,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  sun, 

That  the  night  was  past,  and  day  was  come. 

Bravely  he  bent  o'er  the  ivory  bone  ; 

But  dull  and  dusk  as  a  time-stained  stone, 

From  some  mouldering  sculptured  aisle  redeemed, 

The  face  of  the  slighted  figure  seemed ; 

Till  with  heart  and  soul  the  artist  cast 

His  mind  on  the  visionary  past, 

When  the  face  put  on  a  purer  hue, 

While  again  the  wondrous  presence  grew ; 

And  the  star's  and  the  spirit's  leagued  light 

Baffled  the  cunning  of  plotting  night. 

"Father,  why  sit  you  ever  alone, 

Carving  this  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone  ? 

Unlovely  the  figure,  and  passing  grim 

With  cramping  tortures  in  every  limb. 

A  ghastly  sight  is  the  open  wound, 

The  wicked  nails,  and  the  sharp  thorns  bound 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  263 

O'er  his  heavy  brow's  crowned  agony :  — 

Fearful  is  Christ  on  the  cursed  tree  !  " 

"And  see  you  nothing,"  the  artist  said, 

"  But  pain  and  death  in  this  sacred  head  ?  — 

No  triumph  in  the  firm  lip  see  you  ? 

No  gracious  promise  which  struggles  through 

The  half-closed  lids  ;  or  no  patient  vow 

Sealed  on  the  breadth  of  this  mighty  brow  ? 

Is  my  purpose  idle,  my  labor  vain  ?  " 

They  answered,  "  We  see  but  death  and  pain." 

A  little  word  had  frozen  his  blood  ; 

All  silent  the  woful  artist  stood, 

Turning  the  figure,  now  here,  now  there, 

With  the  stolid  wonder  of  despair. 

Blankly  his  eye-balls  he  swept  around, 

As  one  who  wakes  from  a  dream  profound, 

And  doubts  the  actual  world  he  sees, 

Yet  knows  his  visions  but  fantasies. 

"  Nothing  ?  "  the  artist  murmured  again. 

"  Nothing,"  they  answered,  "  but  death  and  pain. 

0,  father,  come  to  the  sunny  heath, 

Where  the  violets  nod  in  their  own  sweet  breath, 

Where  the  roses,  prodigal  as  fair, 

Squander  their  wealth  on  the  thankless  air, 

And  all  the  glory  of  heaven  and  earth 

Meets  in  the  hour  of  the  lily's  birth ; 

Where  the  wheeling  sky-larks  upward  throng, 

Chasing  to  heaven  their  morning  song, 

Till  its  music  fades  from  the  listening  ear, 

And  only  God's  placid  angels  hear, 

As  they  hush  their  matin  hymn,  and  all 

Serenely  bend  o'er  the  crystal  wall. 


264  THE   IVORY   CARVER. 

Hasten,  dear  father ;  there  's  nothing  there 

So  dread  as  yon  figure's  dying  stare  ; 

For  sun  and  dew  have  a  cunning  way 

Of  making  the  dullest  thing  look  gay  : 

There  's  a  wonder  there  in  the  coarsest  stone, 

Which  you  cannot  solve,  yet  still  must  own. 

Or,  if  it  suit  not  your  present  mood, 

Come  with  us  then  to  the  darksome  wood ; 

Where  cataracts  talk  to  hoary  trees 

Of  the  world  in  by-gone  centuries, 

Ere  the  dew  on  Eden's  hills  had  dried, 

Or  its  valleys  lost  their  flowery  pride  ; 

When  earth  beneath  them,  and  heaven  above, 

Were  lulled  in  the  nursing  arms  of  love, 

And  all  God's  creatures  together  grew  — 

A  peace  in  the  very  air  they  drew  — 

Until  sin  burst  nature's  golden  zone, 

And  nature  dwindled,  and  sin  has  grown. 

Come,  father,  there  's  more  of  joy  and  good 

In  our  merry  heath  and  solemn  wood, 

Than  the  cold,  dead  hands  of  art  can  reach, 

Or  its  man-made  canons  darkly  teach." 

"  Children,  dear  children,  it  may  not  be  : 

This  work  the  Master  hath  set  for  me. 

All  are  not  framed  of  the  self-same  clay ; 

And  some  must  labor,  or  none  could  play." 

The  bright  flowers  blossomed,  the  sky-larks  sang, 

Deep  in  the  forest  the  cataracts'  clang 

Went  up,  unheard,  in  the  silent  sun ; 

The  childish  ears,  which  their  charms  had  won, 

And  the  tongues  they  woke,  were  there  no  more  — 

They  lay  with  the  clay  that  breathed  of  yore. 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  265 

Up  sprang  the  artist,  and  glared  around, 

Dashing  the  Christ  to  the  shuddering  ground, 

With  a  cry  whose  piercing  agony 

Made  hell  reecho  with  welcome  glee, 

And  all  the  trembling  angels  pale 

At  the  terrors  of  that  human  wail. 

"  Was  it  for  this  I  was  singled  out 

From  the  cringing,  slavish,  coward  rout 

That  blacken  foul  earth  ?     Was  it  for  this 

I  bore  the  low  sneer,  the  open  hiss, 

The  cross,  the  passion,  the  cheerless  toil  — 

Which  nothing  fosters,  and  all  things  foil  — 

Only  that  Thou  shouldst  be  glorified 

In  the  Saviour  who  sitteth  by  Thy  side  ? 

And  is  this  Thy  servant's  rich  reward  ? 

Are  these  the  blessings  which  Thou  hast  stored 

For  the  faithful  few  ?  —  From  sons  of  men 

Choose  me  for  Thy  chiefest  rebel,  then  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  murderous,  cheating  thought 

That  led  me  blindly  !     The  hand  that  wrought 

This  ivory  fraud,  thrice  cursed  be  ; 

For  it  slew  the  hearts  that  lived  for  me  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  sight  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  womb  that  gave  me  birth  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  blood  on  Calvary  poured  ! 

Cursed,  cursed  be  Thy  hollow  name  "  — The  word, 

That  might  have. uttered  unpardoned  sin, 

Died  on  his  shuddering  lips  ;  and  within, 

Like  a  dead  weight,  on  his  palsied  tongue 

The  impious  thought  of  his  fury  hung. 

Around,  above,  with  one  rapid  stoop, 

The  waiting  shadows  of  evil  swoop  ; 


266  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

And  in  and  out,  through  the  vast  turmoil 
Of  cloudy  currents,  that  twist  and  coil 
In  endless  motion,  unnumbered  forms  — 
Countless  as  sands  in  the  desert  storms  — 
Were  drifted  in  masses  indistinct ; 
No  limb  to  a  neighboring  shape  seemed  linked. 
Now  a  woful  head  came  staring  through, 
Then  withered  hands,  where  the  head  withdrew ; 
Now  a  brow  with  wrathful  furrows  knit, 
Then  the  trailing  hair/  of  a  girl  would  flit, 
Like  a  meteor,  from  the  dusky  throng 
That  whirled  with  the  cloudy  tide  along. 
One,  more  audacious  than  all  the  rest, 
Who  wore  his  crimes,  as  a  haughty  crest 
Nodding  its  plumes  o'er  a  conqueror  proud, 
Stepped  boldly  forth  from  the  writhing  cloud, 
Stepped  boldly  forth  on  the  solid  land, 
And  clutched  the  Christ  with  his  sinful  hand. 
Instant  the  shadows  were  rent  in  twain, 
Dashed  here  and  there  o'er  the  frighted  plain, 
And  the  star  burst  blazing  from  above  ; 
Stern  vengeance  mixed  with  its  holy  love, 
As  full  on  the  brow  of  the  child  of  hell, 
With  the  crash  of  a  flaming  battle-shell, 
,  The  beams  of  the  angry  planet  fell. 
Right  boldly  the  startled  demon  gazed, 
And  backward,  with  dauntless  front  upraised  — 
Upon  whose  terrific  waste  still  gloomed 
Hate  unsubdued  and  wrath  unconsumed  — 
He  faced  the  star-beams,  and  slowly  strode 
Into  the  depths  of  his  drear  abode. 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  267 

Motionless  sat  the  artist  alone, 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ivory  bone, 

Yet  seeing  nothing.     The  vengeful  star, 

As  the  routed  shadows  fled  afar, 

Softened  its  lustre,  and  gently  glanced 

On  his  torpid  breast.     As  one  entranced 

Stirs  with  dumb  life,  in  the  solid  gloom 

Of  some  unhealthy,  damp-dripping  tomb ; 

Feels  his  coffin-lid  with  groping  hands, 

Or  clutches  the  grave-clothes'  tightened  bands, 

And  then  with  a  murmur  turns  him  o'er, 

Drowsily  dozing  to  death  once  more  : 

So  seemed  the  artist.     The  star-beams  brought 

A  dim  sensation,  a  vague  half-thought, 

That  glimmered  a  while  around  his  brain, 

Then  faded,  and  all  was  dark  again. 

But  still  the  warm,  loving  splendor  shone  ; 

And  close  to  the  side  of  the  greater  one, 

Two  stars,  in  their  new-born  freshness,  came' 

Down  from  the  throne  of  mercy,  a  flame 

With  all  its  brightness.     A  silvery  trail 

Died  out  behind  them  in  sparkles  pale, 

As  they  wheeled  within  the  lustrous  sphere 

Of  the  elder  star,  and  shot  their  clear 

Commingled  rays  o'er  the  abject  clay, 

That  prone,  unmoving,  and  silent,  lay, 

With  a  dull,  cold  load  of  stupid  pain 

Pressed  on  his  heart  and  his  senseless  brain. 

As  the  springtide  sun,  that  sets  aglow 

The  tufted  meadow's  with  melting  snow, 

And  turns  by  degrees  the  icy  hills 

To  balmy  vapors  and  fruitful  rills, 


268  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

So  shone  the  stars  on  the  torpid  man  ; 
Until,  as  the  first  hard  tear-drop  ran, 
A  thought  through  his  gloomy  bosom  stole. 
At  once,  with  a  shock  of  pain,  the  whole 
Broad  human  nature  arose  amazed, 
With  all  its  guilt  on  its  brow  upraised. 
Ah,  me !  't  was  a  mournful  sight,  to  see 
The  three  stars  shining,  so  peacefully, 
On  the  raging  breast  of  him  who  poured 
His  puny  wrath  at  our  gracious  Lord. 
A  while,  with  stubborn  and  wilful  might, 
The  artist  strove  to  drive  from  his  sight 
The  kindly  look  of  the  starry  trine  ; 
Yet,  turn  as  he  might,  some  power  divine 
Would  soften  his  will,  he  knew  not  why, 
And  draw  to  the  light  his  troubled  eye. 
Long,  long  he  looked  ;  till  his  heavy  grief 
Of  heart  gushed  forth,  and  a  full  relief 
Of  balmy  tear-drops  fell,  round  on  round, 
Like  the  blood  which  marks  yet  heals  a  wound. 
He  staggered,  he  bowed  his  stubborn  knee, 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shining  three ; 
And  the  tears  so  magnified  his  gaze, 
That  the  face  of  heaven  seemed  all  ablaze 
With  light  and  mercy.     He  knew  the  stars 
That  looked  through  his  earthly  dungeon-bars.  - 
"I  see,"  he  shouted,  "ye  live,  ye  live  I 
Death  is  a  phantom  !     0  God,  forgive!  " 

Steadily  worked  the  artist  alone, 
Carving  the  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone. 
Again  the  bright  presence  shone  around 
With  a  light  more  dazzling,  more  profound. 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  269 

Through  day,  through  night,  through  fair,  through 

foul, 

The  artist  wrought  with  a  single  soul ; 
And  when  hand  would  tire,  or  eye  grow  dim, 
He  looked  at  the  stars  that  looked  at  him, 
Until  power  and  vision  both  were  given, 
And  he  carved  the  Christ  by  light  from  heaven . 
Under  each  cruel  thorn-point  he  hid 
A  world  of  grief,  and  each  drooping  lid 
Was  closed  round  its  mortal  tears  of  pain  ; 
But  the  nostrils  curved  in  proud  disdain 
Of  death  and  his  feeble  tyranny, 
And  the  mouth  was  calm  with  victory. 
High  over  all,  the  majestic  brow 
Looked  down  on  the  storm  which  raged  below, 
Big  with  the  power  and  the  god-like  will 
That  said  to  the  sinking  heart —  "  Be  still !  " 
And  it  was  still.     For  who  once  had  looked 
On  that  mighty  brow,  saw  not  the  crooked 
And  veined  fingers  that  clutched  the  nails, 
Nor  the  fitful  spasm  that  comes  and  fails 
In  the  dropping  legs,  nor  the  wide  wound  ; 
0,  no  !  the  thorn-wreath  seemed  twisted  round 
A  victor's  head,  like  a  diadem, 
And  each  thorn-point  bore  a  royal  gem. 

Silently  sat  the  artist  alone  ; 

For  the  Christ  was  carved  from  the  ivory  bone. 

The  presence  bowed  with  a  holy  awe, 

And  paled  in  the  light  of  the  thing  it  saw : 

But  the  three  stars  sang  a  single  word, 

Faint  and  subdued,  like  a  widowed  bird 


270  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

That  sings  to  her  own  sad  heart  alone, 

And  feels  that  no  creature  hears  her  moan. 

The  artist  echoed  their  timid  psalm, 

Bowing  to  earth,  with  palm  clasped  in  palm  ; 

And,  "Pardon,  pardon,  pardon,"  he  prayed, 

As  the  Christ  upon  his  heart  he  laid. 

"  Pardon,  0,  pardon !  "  the  three  stars  sang  : 

"  Pardon,  0,  pardon  !  "     All  heaven  rang 

With  dulcet  sounds,  as  the  angel  throng 

Joined  in  the  depths  of  the  choral  song, 

With  harp,  and  viol,  and  timbrel  sweet. 

"  Pardon,  0,  pardon  !  "  the  saints  repeat, 

With  shrouded  faces  and  solemn  close, 

As  hearts  remembering  their  human  woes. 

And  martyrs,  who  bore  their  fiery  scars 

Like  trophies  gathered  in  long-past  wars, 

Cried  "  Pardon,  pardon  !  "    And  heaven's  wide  hills, 

And  fruitful  valleys,  and  golden  rills, 

And  long,  long  levels  of  sunny  sky, 

Were  vibrant  with  living  sympathy ; 

And  folded  and  gathered  into  one 

The  waves  of  the  multitudinous  tone, 

Until,  like  a  winged  thing  that  glows 

With  the  first  joy  of  its  wings,  arose 

In  pride  of  triumph  the  mighty  sound, 

And  circled  the  mercy-seat  around ; 

Till  the  glory  grew,  the  sign  was  given, 

And  another  joy  was  born  in  heaven. 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  271 


EPILOGUE. 

THREE  priests  from  Saint  Peter's  church  have  come, 

To  carry  an  ivory  Saviour  home. 

Long  years  of  unceasing  strategies  — 

New  bribes,  new  threats,  and  new  treacheries  — 

It  cost  our  holy  father  ;  until 

The  prior  who  held  it  at  his  will  — 

"  Cursed  be  his  name  !  "  say  the  brotherhood 

Of  the  house  wherein  the  treasure  stood  — 

Lost  all  their  wealth  on  a  single  cast, 

And  the  Pope  secured  the  prize  at  last. 

How  it  was  managed,  heaven  only  knows  ; 

But  by  one  thing's  fall  another  grows  :  - 

And  though  the  prior  was  cursed,  mayhap, 

In  a  year  or  two  a  cardinal's  cap 

Covered  more  sins  than  that  little  slip, 

And  bore  more  curses,  from  every  lip, 

With  as  proud  a  grace  to  its  lord's  behoof 

As  if  the  cloth  were  of  Milan  proof. 

Howbeit,  I  give  the  slander  o'er. 

The  three  priests  stand  by  the  convent  door, 

And  the  monks,  with  groans  of  wrath,  essay 

To  bring  the  Christ  to  the  light  of  day. 

Three  times  they  had  nearly  dropped  their  load :  — 

All  chance,  perhaps  ;  but  the  shoulders  broad 

Of  stout  Father  John  came  just  in  need, 

Though  his  oaths  were  a  little  late  indeed. 


272  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

"  Is  this  a  matter,"  said  burly  John  — 

His  breath  and  his  temper  almost  gone  — 

"  To  bruise  one's  shoulder  about  ?     'Ods  blood  ! 

Bring  the  true  image  ;  or,  by  the  rood ! 

You  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  the  Pope  !  " 

"Why,  brothers,  you  did  not  think,  I  hope," 

Said  Father  Francis  —  his  open  eyes 

Bewildered  with  sorrowful  surprise  — 

"  To  cheat  an  old  connoisseur  like  me, 

With  such  a  bold  dash  of  villany. 

Full  fifty  better  Christs  I  have  seen 

Rotting  away  in  the  Madeleine. 

Here  's  cause  for  penance  !  here  's  much  to  tell !  — 

Is  this  your  ivory  miracle  ?  " 

"Hush  !  "  whispered  young  Anselrn's  saintly  lips. 

"But  see  the  modelling  about  the  hips," 

Broke  in  sour  Francis.     "  And  only  see," 

Blustered  John,  boldly,  "  the  holy  tree  !  — 

Of  English  oak !  while  the  chips  we  own 

Are  made  from  cedar  of  Lebanon. 

Either  the  Church  or  the  artist  lies  :  — 

Who  doubts  it  ?  "     Within  his  reddening  eyes 

There  burnt  a  general  Auto-de-fe, 

For  whomever  might  his  words  gainsay. 

Anselm  waved  slowly  his  small,  white  hand, 

And  speech  was  hushed,  as  the  little  band 

Of  priests  and  friars  drew  softly  round, 

Like  men  who  tread  upon  holy  ground ; 

For  Anselm  was  half  a  saint  at  Rome. 

The  general  country  for  leagues  would  come 

To  hear  his  preaching.     His  sermon  o'er, 

The  alms-box  groaned  with  its  golden  store  ; 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  273 

And  alone  each  thoughtful  soul  would  go, 

With  his  happy  features  all  aglow  ; 

As  if  bounteous  heaven's  transfiguring  grace 

Were  sown  broadcast  o'er  each  shining  face, 

And  each  were  revolving  in  his  head 

The  words  which  a  parting  angel  said : 

So  that  young  Anselm  came  nigh  to  be 

A  saint  ere  he  put  off  mortality. 

Why  he  was  not  a  bishop,  at  least, 

Or  something  more  than  a  common  priest, 

Is  a  shrewd  question  we  '11  not  press  home  — 

They  don't  make  bishops  of  saints  at  Eome. 

Sometimes  a  bishop  becomes  a  saint ; 

But  that  is  after  the  fleshy  taint 

Has  well  worn  off  in  the  grave's  decay  : 

And  anything  can  be  made  from  clay ; 

Saints,  poets,  heroes,  —  the  thing's  all  one  — 

A  scratching  of  pens,  and  the  work  is  done. 

Slowly  round  Anselm  the  listeners  drew, 
Fixing  their  eyes  on  his  eyes  of  blue. 
He  mused,  but  spoke  not.     His  spirit  now 
Was  lost  in  the  wonder  of  the  brow  ; 
Or  chained  to  the  grand  victorious  scorn 
About  the  nostril ;  or  downward  borne 
In  the  weight  of  agony  and  grief 
That  loaded  the  tear-drops  ;  or  relief, 
Perchance,  he  sought  in  the  steady  smile 
Eound  the  parted  lips  :     But  all  the  while 
No  word  he  spoke,  though  his  constant  eye 
Blazed  with  the  splendor  of  prophecy  ; 
As  full  on  the  ivory  Christ  he  bent 
A  look  that  o'ergathered  all  it  sent  — 
VOL.  n.  18 


2T4  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

A  fruitful  commerce  of  thoughts  sublime, 
That  burst  earth's  limits,  and  mocked  at  time. 
So  long  he  looked,  and  such  meaning  grew 
Twixt  the  ivory  and  the  eyes  of  blue, 
That  the  priests  who  saw  do  stoutly  tell 
How  the  figure  moved.     "  A  miracle  !  " 
Shouted  Father  John,  with  hanging  jaw  ;  — 
"  'Ods  blood !  and  the  first  I  ever  saw." 
"  A  miracle  I  "     One  clamorous  cry 
Went  up  through  the  low,  damp  evening  sky, 
From  a  score  of  gaping  cowls,  that  hid 
More  fear  than  grace  beneath  every  lid  ; 
And  the  caverned  hills,  around  the  plain, 
Swelled  with  it,  then  cast  it  back  again  — 
A  hollow  echo,  a  jeering  shout, 
Which  silenced  the  lips  that  gave  it  out. 
Then  gently  turned  Anselm  towards  the  priest, 
His  great  soul  filled  with  a  solemn  feast 
Of  thoughtful  love  ;  in  the  blest  repose 
Which  follows  the  spirit's  higher  throes, 
Aloud  to  the  silent  throng  he  spoke, 
Kindling  as  thought  upon  thought  awoke. 

"  0  ye,  who  in  midnight  caverns  dwell, 
While  the  ever-during  miracle 
Of  changing  seasons  goes  through  its  round 
A  stone-cast  beyond  your  narrow  bound  ;  — 
Even  though  you  will  not  or  cannot  see 
The  marvel  born  in  the  growing  tree, 
The  opening  flower,  or  the  gracious  sun 
That  gives  equal  alms  to  every  one : 
Shall  ye  be  the  first,  to  raise  a  cry 
Of  '  miracle  ! '  if  some  passer  by 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  275 

Venture  within  your  hideous  cell, 
Where  the  gleam  of  twilight  never  fell, 
With  a  flaring  torch  of  smoky  pine  ?  — 
Shall  ye  call  the  light  a  thing  divine, 
Because  a  mere  sudden,  curious  chance 
Has  worked  on  your  own  dull  ignorance, 
And  given  you  vision,  and  taught  you  lore 
That  lay  from  the  first  at  your  very  door  ? 
Must  signs  and  wonders  forever  be 
Guides  on  the  road  to  eternity  ? 
Unhood  yourselves,  and  look  round  you,  then, 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  your  fellow-men. 
Know  that  the  miracle  does  not  lie 
In  the  roar  of  jarring  prodigy  ; 
But  lapped  in  the  everlasting  law, 
Whose  faithful  issue  last  spring  ye  saw, 
When  chill  earth  warmed  in  the  vernal  ray, 
The  snow  was  melted,  the  ice  gave  way, 
When  the  grass  rose  trembling  from  the  clod, 
And  pointed  its  narrow  leaf  to  God. 
Who,  when  this  ivory  was  first  revealed, 
Saw  any  marvel,  plain  or  concealed, 
In  the  glorious  sculpture  ?     Nay,  ye  turned 
Your  senseless  shoulders,  and  boldly  spurned 
The  heavenly  thing  ;  till  your  failing  sight  — 
Caught  by  a  trick  of  the  shifting  light  — 
Fancied  some  movement,  or  here,  or  there  — 
A  crooking  finger,  a  waving  hair  — 
When  sudden  awe  on  your  weakness  fell, 
And  all  cried  as  one  — '  A  miracle ! ' 
0  shallow  sceptics  !     0  seekers  blind  ! 
The  marvel  is  not  the  one  ye  find ; 


276  THE   IVORY    CARVER. 

It  lies  not  in  moving  limb  or  head, 

Though  the  frame   had  writhed,  the   thorn-wounds 

bled, 

The  sweet  mouth  spoken,  tears  dimmed  the  eyes  — 
No,  not  in  these  the  true  mystery  lies  ; 
But  in  the  grand  irradiate  whole, 
Warm  with  its  fresh  and  immortal  soul, 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of  eternal  youth  — 
God's  presence  revealed  in  simple  truth  ! 
I  tell  you,  here  standing,  this  shall  preach 
When  Pope,  priests,  church,  and  the  creed  ye  teach, 
Have  passed,  like  the  heathen  dreams,  away, 
And  flowers  take  root  in  your  haughty  clay. 
When  a  stranger,  on  the  Appian  road, 
May  ask  where  Saint  Peter's  ruins  stood ; 
And  a  simple  hind,  who  tills  the  soil 
O'er  Rome's  foundations,  may  pause  from  toil, 
And  say  he  knows  not.     Even  then  shall  stand 
In  the  musing  stranger's  distant  land, 
Sculptured  from  bases  to  pediments 
With  all  that  studious  art  invents, 
A  temple  of  marble  veined  with  gold, 
Built  only  this  precious  Christ  to  hold. 
Air-spanning  arches  and  columns  broad, 
All  stooping  beneath  their  splendid  load  — 
Wide-vaulted  chambers  whose  frescoes  rare 
People  the  solemn  religious  air 
With  heavenly  synods  —  and  heavenly  notes, 
Blown  out  from  the  organ's  golden  throats, 
Shall  rise  like  a  general  voice,  to  tell 
Man's  joy  in  yon  ivory  miracle. 
And  daily  within  that  holy  fane 
Shall  come  a  sin-stricken  pilgrim  train, 


THE   IVORY    CARVER.  27*7 

From  every  country  beneath  the  sun, 

To  gaze  on  this  image  ;  and  each  one 

Shall  loosen  his  burden  of  despair, 

And  stride  again  to  the  blessed  air 

With  new  power  to  do,  new  strength  to  bear. 

For  here,  in  this  sacred  face,  is  met 

All  that  mortal  ever  suffered  yet : 

All  human  weakness,  all  shame,  all  fear, 

Hang  in  the  woe  of  yon  trembling  tear  ; 

And  all  the  will,  the  valor,  the  power, 

That  grapple  and  hold  the  adverse  hour, 

Are  throned  like  kings  on  yon  fearless  brow  ; 

And  the  vassal  flesh  shall  cower  and  bow, 

As  nature  bows  unto  nature's  laws !  "  — 

Here  Anselm's  speech  made  a  sudden  pause. 

Lost  in  the  grand  passion  at  his  heart, 

With  flashing  eyes,  and  lips  wide  apart  — 

As  one  whose  full  subject  overbore, 

In  torrents,  the  power  to  utter  more  — 

He  stood  all  trembling.     Like  heavy  clouds 

Moved  by  one  wind,  the  friars  in  crowds 

Gloomily  under  their  portal  swam, 

In  half-voice  chanting  a  vesper  psalm  ; 

And  the  priests  were  standing  there  alone 

With  night,  the  Christ,  and  four  stars  that  shone  — 

Brighter  and  brighter  as  daylight  fled  — 

Strangely  together,  just  overhead. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 


PRELUDE. 

CHOKUS   OF   PLANETS. 

HARK  to  our  voices,  0  mother  of  nations ! 

Why  art  thou  dim  when  thy  sisters  are  radiant  ? 

Why  veil'st  thy  face  in  a  mantle  of  vapor, 

Gliding  obscure  through  the  depths  of  the  night  ? 

Wake  from  thy  lethargy  !     Hear'st  thou  our  music, 

Harmonious,  that  reaches  the  confines  of  space  ? 

Join  in  our  chorus,  join  in  our  jubilee, 

Make  the  day  pine  with  thy  far-piercing  melody  — 

Pine  that  his  kingdom  of  blue  sky  and  sunshine 

Never  reechoes  such  marvellous  tones. 

No,  thou  art  silent,  0  mystical  sister, 

Silent  and  proud  that  thou  bear'st  on  thy  bosom 

The  wonderful  freight  of  the  God-lighted  soul. — 

We   hear  thee,  we   hear  thee,   beneath  thy  thick 

mantle, 

The  war  of  the  winds  through  thy  leaf-laden  forests, 
And  round  aisles  of  thy  pillared  and  hill-piercing 
Caverns  sonorous  ;  hear  the  dread  avalanche 
Torn  from  its  quivering  mountainous  summit, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH.  2T9 

Ribbed  with  massy  rocks,  crested  with  pine-trees, 
Thundering  enormous  upon  thy  fair  valleys  ; 
Hear  the  dull  roar  of  thy  mist-spouting  cataracts  ; 
Hear  the  faint  plash  of  thy  salt  seething  billows, 
Lifting  their  heads  multitudinous,  or  shoreward 
Climbing  the  cliffs  that  o'erhang  them  with  trembling, 
And  tossing  their  spray  in  exultant  defiance 
Over  the  weed-bearded  guardians  of  ocean. 
Sister,  we  listen ;  thy  strains  are  enlinking, 
Melodiously  blending  to  ravishing  harmony  ; 
Clouds  are  departing,  we  see  thee,  we  yearn  to  thee, 
Noblest  of  planets,  creation's  full  glory  ! 
Bending  we  hearken,  thou  mother  of  nations, 
Hark  to  the  sky-rending  voice  of  humanity  1 


280  THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 


SONG    OF    THE    EARTH. 

0  VEX  me  not,  ye  ever-burning  planets  ; 
Nor  sister  call  me,  ye  who  me  afflict. 

1  am  unlike  ye  ;  ye  may  revelling  sing, 
Careless  and  joyful,  roaming  sunlit  ether, 
Urged  with  but  one  emotion,  chaunting  still 
Through  lapsing  time  the  purpose  of  your  birth, 
Each  with  a  several  passion  ;  but  to  me 

Are  mixed  emotions,  vast  extremes  of  feeling  — 
Now  verdant  in  the  fruitful  smile  of  heaven, 
Now  waste  and  blackened  in  the  scowl  of  hell. 
Ye  know  me  not,  nor  can  ye  sympathize 
With  one  like  me,  for  wisdom  is  not  yours. 
Ye  sing  for  joy  ;  but  wisdom  slowly  comes 
From  the  close  whispers  of  o'erburdened  pain. 
I  am  alone  in  all  the  universe  ! 
To  me  is  pain  ;  I  can  distinguish  sin  ; 
But  ye  with  constant  though  unweeting  glance 
Rain  good  or  ill,  and  smile  alike  at  both, 
Nor  understand  the  mystery  of  your  natures. 
To  me  is  wisdom  —  wisdom  bought  with  woe, 
Ages  on  ages  passed,  when  first  I  strayed, 
With  haughty  scorn  and  self-reliant  pride, 
From  purity  and  God.     For  once  like  you 
God  spoke  me  face  to  face,  me  soulless  led 
From  joy  to  joy  ;  yet  He  was  mystical  — 
Too  obvious  for  thought  —  I  knew  Him  not. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH.  281 

But  now,  through  sin,  I  understand  like  Him 

The  heart  of  things,  the  steep  descents  of  guilt, 

And  the  high  pinnacles  of  heaven-lit  virtue. 

Bend  down,  ye  stars,  bend  from  your  silver  thrones, 

Ye  joyful  wanderers  of  ether  bright ; 

For  I,  soul-bearer  of  the  universe, 

Would  teach  your  ignorance  with  the  lips  of  song  ! 

0  MERCURY,  hot  planet,  burying  deep 
Thy  forehead  in  the  sunlight,  list  to  me  ! 

1  groan  beneath  thy  influence.     Thou  dost  urge 
The  myriad  hands  of  labor,  and  with  toil 

Dost  mar  my  features  ;  day  by  day  dost  work 

Thy  steady  changes  on  my  ancient  face, 

Till  all  the  host  of  heaven  blank  wonder  look, 

Nor  know  the  fresh,  primeval  moulded  form 

That  rose  from  chaos,  like  the  Aphrodite, 

Smiling  through  dews  upon  the  first  morn's  sun. 

The  leaf-crowned  mountain's  brows  thou  hurlest  down 

Into  the  dusty  valley,  and  dost  still 

The  free  wild  singing  of  the  cleaving  streams 

To  murmurs  dying  lazily  within 

The  knotted  roots  of  pool-engendered  lilies, 

That  sluggish  nod  above  the  slimy  dams. 

All  day  the  axe  I  hear  rending  through  trunks, 

Moss-grown  and  reverend,  of  clustered  oaks ; 

All  day  the  circling  scythe  sweeps  off 

The  ruddy  bloom  of  vain-aspiring  fields, 

Clipping  to  stubbles  grim  the  vernal  flowers. 

Thou  portionest  my  meadows,  and  dost  make 

Each  fruitful  slope  a  spot  for  sweaty  toil. 

Thou  tearest  up  my  bosom  ;  far  within 

My  golden  veins  the  grimed  miner's  pick 


282  THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Startles  the  babbling  echoes.     Ancient  rocks, 

My  hardy  bones,  are  rent  with  nitrous  fire, 

To  rear  the  marts,  to  bridge  the  leaping  streams, 

Or  to  usurp  the  ocean's  olden  right, 

That  selfish  trade  may  dry-shod  walk  to  power. 

The  very  ocean,  grim,  implacable, 

Thou  loadest  with  the  white-winged  fleets  of  commerce, 

Crossing,  like  wheeling  birds,  each  other's  tracks  ; 

Until  the  burdened  giant,  restless  grown, 

Bounds  from  his  sleep,  and  in  the  stooping  clouds 

Nods  his  white  head,  while -splintered  navies  melt 

To  scattered  fragments  in  his  sullen  froth. 

Malignant  star,  I  feel  thy  wicked  power  ; 

My  children's  busy  thoughts  are  full  of  thee : 

Thou  'st  chilled  the  loving  spirit  in  their  hearts, 

And  on  their  lips  hast  placed  the  selfish  finger  — 

They  dare  not  know  each  other.     All  that  is, 

All  that  God  blessed  my  teeming  bosom  with, 

Is  priced,  and  bartered  ;  ay,  the  very  worth 

Of  man  himself  is  weighed  with  senseless  gold  — 

Therefore  I  hate  thee,  bright-browed  wanderer ! 

Daughter  of  the  sober  twilight, 
Lustrous  planet,  ever  hanging 
In  the  mottled  mists  that  welcome 
Coming  morning,  or  at  evening 
Peeping  through  the  ruddy  banners 
Of  the  clouds  that  wave  a  parting, 
From  their  high  aerial  summits, 
To  the  blazing  god  of  day  — 
'Tis  for  thee  I  raise  my  pagan, 
Steady-beaming  VENUS,  kindler, 
In  the  stubborn  hearts  of  mortals, 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  EARTH.  283 

Of  the  sole  surviving  passion 

That  enlinks  a  lost  existence 

With  the  dull  and  ruthless  present. 

Far  adown  the  brightening  future, 

Prophetess,  I  see  thee  glancing  — 

See  thee  still  amid  the  twilight 

Of  the  ages  rolling  onward, 

Promising  to  heart-sick  mortals 

Triumph  of  thy  gracious  kingdom  ; 

When  the  hand  of  power  shall  weaken, 

And  the  wronger  right  the  wronged, 

And  the  pure,  primeval  Eden 

Shall  again  o'erspread  with  blossoms 

Sunny  hill  and  shady  valley. 

'T  is  to  thee  my  piny  mountains 

Wave  aloft  their  rustling  branches ; 

;T  is  to  thee  my  opening  flowrets 

Send  on  high  their  luscious  odors  ; 

'T  is  to  thee  my  leaping  fountains 

Prattle  through  their  misty  breathings, 

And  the  bass  of  solemn  ocean 

Chimes  accoi'dant  in  the  chorus. 

Every  fireside  is  thy  altar 

Streaming  up  its  holy  incense  ; 

Every  mated  pair  of  mortals, 

Happily  linked,  are  priest  and  priestess, 

Pouring  to  thee  full  libations 

From  their  over-brimming  spirits. 

Clash  the  loud-resounding  cymbals, 

Light  the  rosy  torch  of  Hymen, 

Bands  of  white-robed  youths  and  maidens 

Whirl  aloft  the  votive  myrtle  ! 

Kaise  the  choral  hymn  to  VENUS  — 


284  THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Young-eyed  VENUS,  ever  youthful, 
Ever  on  true  hearts  bestowing 
Pleasures  new  that  never  pall ! 
Brightest  link  'tween  man  and  heaven, 
Soul  of  virtue,  life  of  goodness, 
Cheering  light  in  pain  and  sorrow, 
Pole-star  to  the  struggling  voyager 
Wrecked  on  life's  relentless  billows, 
Fair  reward  of  trampled  sainthood, 
Beaming  from  the  throne  Eternal 
Lonely  hope  to  sinful  mankind  — 
Still  among  the  mists  of  morning, 
Still  among  the  clouds  of  evening, 
While  the  years  drive  ever  onward, 
Hang  thy  crescent  lamp  of  promise, 
VENUS,  blazing  star  of  Love  ! 

0  MARS,  wide  heaven  is  shuddering  at  the  stride 
Of  thy  mailed  foot,  most  terrible  of  planets  ! 

1  see  thee  struggling  with  thy  brazen  front 
To  look  a  glory  from  amid  the  crust 

Of  guilty  blood  that  dims  thy  haughty  face  ; 
The  curse  of  crime  is  on  thee.     Look,  behold  ! 

See  where  thy  frenzied  votaries  march 
Hark  to  the  brazen  blare  of  the  bugle, 
Hark  to  the  rattling  clatter  of  the  drums, 
The  measured  tread  of  the  steel-clad  footmen  ! 
Hark  to  the  laboring  horses'  breath, 
Painfully  tugging  the  harnessed  cannon  ; 
The  shrill,  sharp  clink  of  the  warrior's  swords, 
As  their  chargers  bound  when  the  trumpets  sound 
Their  alarums  through  the  echoing  mountains  1 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  EARTH.  285 

See  the  flashing  of  pennons  and  scarfs, 

Shaming  the  gorgeous  blazon  of  evening, 

Rising  and  falling  'mid  snowy  plumes 

That  dance  like  foam  on  the  crested  billows  ! 

Bright  is  the  glitter  of  burnished  steel, 

Stirring  the  clamor  of  martial  music, 

The  clank  of  arms  has  a  witchery 

That  wakes  the  blood  in  a  youthful  bosom. 

And  who  could  tell  from  this  pleasant  show, 

That  flaunts  in  the  sun  like  a  May-day  festal, 

For  what  horrid  rites  are  the  silken  flags, 

For  what  horrid  use  are  the  gleaming  sabres, 

What  change  shall  mar,  when  the  battles  join 

This  marshalled  pageant  of  shallow  glory  ? 

For  then  the  gilded  flags  shall  be  rent, 

The  sabres  rust  with  the  blood  of  foemen, 

And  the  courteous  knight  shall  howl  like  a  wolf, 

When  he  scents  the  gory  steam  of  battle. 

The  orphan's  curse  is  on  thee,  and  the  tears 
Of  widowed  matrons  plead  a  fearful  cause  ; 
Each  thing  my  bosom  bears,  which  thou  hast  touched, 
Is  loud  against  thee.     Flowers  and  trampled  grass, 
And  the  long  line  of  waste  and  barren  fields, 
Erewhile  o'erflowing  with  a  sea  of  sweets, 
Look  up  all  helpless  to  the  pitying  heavens, 
Showing  thy  bloody  footprints  in  their  wounds, 
And  shrieking  through  their  gaunt  and  leafless  trees, 
That  stand  with  imprecating  arms  outspread, 
They  fiercely  curse  thee  with  their  desolation. 
Each  cheerless  hearth-stone  in  the  home  of  man, 
Where  ruin  grins,  and  rubs  his  bony  palms, 
Demands  its  lost  possessor.     Thou  hast  hurled 


286  THE  SOXG  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Man's  placid  reason  from  its  rightful  throne, 
And  in  its  place  reared  savage  force,  to  clip 
Debate  and  doubt  with  murder.     Therefore,  MARS, 
I  sicken  in  thy  angry  glance,  and  loathe 
The  dull  red  glitter  of  thy  bloody  spear. 

I  know  thy  look,  majestic  JUPITER  ; 

I  see  thee  moving  through  the  stars  of  heaven 

Girt  with  thy  train  of  ministering  satellites. 

Proud  planet,  I  confess.thy  influence  : 

My  heart  grows  big  with  gazing  in  thy  face  ; 

Unwonted  power  pervades  my  eager  frame  ; 

My  bulk  aspiring  towers  above  itself, 

And  restless  pants  to  rush  on  acts  sublime, 

At  which  the  wondering  stars  might  stand  agaze, 

And  the  whole  universe  from  end  to  end, 

Conscious  of  me,  should  tremble  to  its  core. 

Spirit  heroical,  imperious  passion, 

That  sharply  sets  the  pliant  face  of  youth, 

That  blinds  the  shrinking  eyes  of  pallid  fear, 

And  plants  the  lion's  heart  in  modest  breasts  — 

I  know  that  thou  hast  led,  with  regal  port, 

The  potent  spirits  of  humanity 

Before  the  van  of  niggard  time,  and  borne, 

With  strides  gigantic,  man's  advancing  race 

From  power  to  power  ;  till,  like  a  host  of  gods, 

They  mock  my  elements,  and  drag  the  secrets 

Of  my  mysterious  forces  up  to  light, 

Giving  them  bounds  determinate  arid  strait, 

And  of  their  natures,  multiform  and  huge, 

Talking  to  children  in  familiar  way. 

The  hero's  sword,  the  poet's  golden  string, 

The  tome-illumining  taper  of  the  sage, 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  EARTH.  287 

Flash  by  thy  influence  ;  from  thee  alone, 
Ambitious  planet,  comes  the  marvellous  power 
That  in  a  cherub's  glowing  form  can  veil 
A  heart  as  cold  as  Iceland,  and  exalt 
To  deity  the  demon  selfishness. 

0  planet,  mingle  with  thy  chilling  rays, 
That  stream  inspiring  to  the  hero's  soul, 
One  beam  of  love  for  vast  humanity, 
And  thou  art  godlike.     Must  it  ever  be, 
That  brightest  flowers  of  action  and  idea 
Spring  from  the  same  dark  soil  of  selfish  lust  ? 
Must  man  receive  the  calculated  gifts 

Of  shrewd  ambition's  self-exalting  hand, 

And  blindly  glorify  an  act  at  which 

The  host  of  heaven  grow  red  with  thoughtful  shame  ? 

Shall  knowledge  hasten  with  her  sunny  face, 

And  weeping  virtue  lag  upon  the  path  ? 

Shall  man  exultant  boast  advance  of  power, 

Nor  see  arise,  at  every  onward  stride, 

New  forms  of  sin  to  shadow  every  truth  ? 

Eoll  on,  roll  on,  in  self-supported  pride, 

Prodigious  influence  of  the  hero's  soul ; 

1  feel  thy  strength,  and  tremble  in  thy  glare  ! 

0,  many-ringed  SATURN,  turn  away 
The  chilling  terrors  of  thy  baleful  glance ! 
Thy  gloomy  look  is  piercing  to  my  heart  — 
I  wither  in  thy  power !     My  springs  dry  up, 
And  shrink  in  horror  to  their  rocky  beds  ; 
The  brooks,  that  whispered  to  the  lily-bells 
All  day  the  glory  of  their  mountain  homes, 
And  kissed  the  dimples  of  the  wanton  rose, 
At  the  deed  blushing  to  their  pebbly  strands, 


288  THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Cease  their  sweet  merriment,  and  glide  afraid 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  twisted  sedge. 

The  opening  bud  shrinks  back  upon  its  shell, 

As  if  the  north  had  puffed  his  frozen  breath 

Full  in  its  face.     The  billowing  grain,  and  grass 

Rippling  with  windy  furrows,  stand  becalmed  ; 

Nor  through  their  roots,  nor  in  their  tiny  veins, 

Bestirs  the  fruitful  sap.     The  very  trees, 

Broad,  hardy  sons  of  crags  and  sterile  plains, 

That  roared  defiance  to  the  winter's  shout, 

And  battled  sternly  through  his  cutting  sleet, 

Droop  in  their  myriad  leaves  ;  while  nightly  birds, 

That  piped  their  shrilling  treble  to  the  moon, 

Hang  silent  from  the  boughs,  and  peer  around, 

Awed  by  mysterious  sympathy.     From  thee, 

Prom  thee,  dull  planet,  comes  this  lethargy 

That  numbs  in  'mid  career  meek  nature's  power, 

And  stills  the  prattle  of  her  plumed  train. 

0  icy  SATURN,  proud  in  ignorance, 

Father  of  sloth,  dark  deadening  influence, 

That  dims  the  eye  to  all  that 's  beautiful, 

And  twists  the  haughty  lip  with  killing  scorn 

For  love  and  holiness  —  from  thee  alone 

Springs  the  cold,  crushing  power  that  presses  down 

The  infinite  in  man.  —  From  thee,  dull  star, 

The  cautious  fear  that  checks  the  glowing  heart, 

With  sympathetic  love,  world-wide,  o'erfreighted, 

And  sends  it  panting  back  upon  itself, 

To  murmur  in  its  narrow  hermitage. 

The  boldest  hero  staggers  in  thy  frown, 

And  drops  his  half-formed  projects  all  aghast ; 

The  poet  shrinks  before  thy  phantom  glare, 

Ere  the  first  echo  greets  his  timid  song  ; 


THE  SONG  OP  THE  EARTH.  289 

The  startled  sage  amid  the  embers  hurls 

The  gathered  wisdom  of  a  fruitful  life. 

0,  who  may  know  from  what  bright  pinnacles 

The  mounting  soul  might  look  on  coming  time, 

Had  all  the  marvellous  thoughts  of  genius  — 

Blasted  to  nothingness  by  thy  cold  sneer  — 

Burst  through  the  bud  and  blossomed  into  fruit  ? 

Benumbing  planet,  on  our  system's  skirt, 

Whirl  from  thy  sphere,  and  round  some  lonely  sun, 

Within  whose  light  no  souls  their  ordeal  pass, 

Circle  and  frown  amid  thy  frozen  belts  ; 

For  I  am  sick  of  thee,  and  stately  man 

Shrinks  to  a  pigmy  in  thy  fearful  stare  ! 

VOL.    II.  19 


290  THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 


FINALE. 

CHORUS    OF   STARS. 

HEIR  of  eternity,  mother  of  souls, 
Let  not  thy  knowledge  betray  thee  to  folly ! 
Knowledge  is  proud,  self-sufficient,  and  lone, 
Trusting,  unguided,  its  steps  in  the  darkness. 
Thine  is  the  learning  that  mankind  may  win, 
Gleaned  in  the  pathway  between  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
Ours  is  the  wisdom  that  hallows  the  child, 
Fresh  from  the  touch  of  his  awful  Creator, 
Dropped,  like  a  star,  on  thy  shadowy  realm, 
Falling  in  splendor,  but  falling  to  darken. 
Ours  is  the  simple  religion  of  faith, 
The  wisdom  of  trust  in  God  who  o'errules  us  ; 
Thine  is  the  complex  misgivings  of  thought, 
Wrested  to  form  by  imperious  reason. 
We  are  forever  pursuing  the  light ; 
Thou  art  forever  astray  in  the  darkness. 
Knowledge  is  restless,  imperfect,  and  sad  ; 
Faith  is  serene,  and  completed,  and  joyful. 
Chide  not  the  planets  that  rule  o'er  thy  ways  ; 
They  are  God's  creatures  ;  nor,  proud  in  thy  reason, 
Vaunt  that  thou  knowest  His  counsels  and  Him.  — 
Boaster,  though  sitting  in  midst  of  the  glory, 
Thou  couldst  not  fathom  the  least  of  His  thoughts. 
Bow  in  humility,  bow  thy  proud  forehead, 
Circle  thy  form  in  a  mantle  of  clouds, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH.  291 

Hide  from  the  glittering  cohorts  of  evening, 
Wheeling  in  purity,  singing  in  chorus  ; 
Howl  in  the  depths  of  thy  lone,  barren  mountains, 
Eestlessly  moan  on  the  deserts  of  ocean, 
Wail  o'er  thy  fall  in  the  desolate  forests, 
Lost  star  of  paradise,  straying  alone  ! 
July,  1848. 


THE  VISION   OF  THE   GOBLET. 

EVOE  BACCHE  !  wine  hath  seized  my  soul ; 

The  fury  of  the  jolly  god  is  on  I 
Reach  me  the  mighty  ancient  bowl : 
Fill  till  the  goblet  weep, 
Fill  till  the  rushing  current  sweep 

The  dull,  cold  present  to  oblivion ! 
Now  swing  amain  the  mystic  beaker  tall, 

And  still  to  Bacchus  breathe  the  potent  spell ; 
Eouse  the  red-visaged  god  from  slumbers  deep 

In  green  Arcadian  dell ! 
Swing  till  the  ruby  breakers  rise  and  fall, 
Swing  till  the  coursing  bubbles  leap 
Above  their  crystal  wall ! 

What  gleams  beneath  the  purple  flood, 

Far  down  upon  the  nether  rim, 
Glowing  amid  the  vine's  rich  blood 

As  through  a  sunset's  misty  film  ? 
'T  is  Attica,  mild  Attica,  that  sleeps 

Embayed  by  heaven  among  her  vine-grown  hills ; 
Mantled  with  flowers  and  glossy  grass  she  lies, 

Smiling  in  all  her  rills  ; 
Palace  and  temple-crowned  she  keeps 
Her  stately  slumber  'neath  the  evening  skies  ; 


THE    VISION    OF   THE    GOBLET.  293 

While  Venus,  brooding  in  a  feathery  cloud, 
As  in  her  nest  the  silver-breasted  dove, 

Peeps  now  and  then  above  her  dusky  shroud 
Upon  the  land  of  love. 

Hark  !  the  wine-waves,  dashing,  splashing, 
Seem  bacchantian  cymbals  clashing 

To  the  rumbling  drum, 
And  the  shivering  flutes'  shrill  singing, 
And  the  jingling  tabors'  ringing  ; 
While,  anon,  the  hurly  dying, 
Syrinx  softly  breathes  her  sighing 
From  the  warbling  reed. 

Caught  in  the  Satyr's  wily  snare, 
What  throngs  across  the  valley  come ; 
As  whirling  in  the  eddying  stream 
Of  music  to  the  hills  they  speed, 
While  upturned  Attic  foreheads  gleam 

Amid  their  billowing  hair ! 
Eeeling,  staggering,  on  they  fly, 
Wine  in  the  blood  and  dizzy  eye, 
Wine  in  every  sinew  burning, 
Onward  still  its  minions  spurning 
Over  hill,  through  lushy  meadow, 
Through  the  forest's  glooming  shadow, 
Hither,  thither,  without  caring 
Where  their  guideless  feet  are  bearing. 

Tossing  aloft,  with  nods  of  drunken  cheer, 
Mark  old  Silenus  on  his  ass  appear ; 

Plashed  is  his  hoary  beard  with  purple  wine, 
Daggled  his  silver  locks,  his  reeking  brows 

Crowned  with  the  ivy  and  the  twisted  vine. ' 


294  THE    VISION    OF    THE    GOBLET. 

Mark  how  the  dotard  leers, 
As  through  the  maids  he  steers, 
And  tries  to  summon  love  within  his  filmy  eyne  ! 
Thick  with  the  luscious  grape 
His  mumbled  words  escape, 
The  barren  echoes  of  his  youthful  vows. 

Lo  !  full-eyed  Bacchus  from  triumphant  war, 

Eich  with  the  trophied  Orient's  boast, 
Goads  through  the  crowd  his  flaming  Indian  car 

Before  the  Satyr  host, 
That  roaring  straggle  in  their  master's  rear, 

Twirling  the  ivied  thyrsus  as  they  bound, 
And  dance  grotesque,  and  mingled  laugh  and  jeer, 

And  cloven  foot-falls  shake  the  springing  ground. 

Around  the  hairy  rout,  with  streaming  hands, 

Athena's  maidens  whirl  the  dripping  urn ; 
Their  floating  vestures,  loosed  from  jealous  bands, 

Half  hide,  half  show,  what  charms  beneath  them 

burn. 
There  mellow  Pan  upon  the  Attic  ear, 

Framed  with  a  dainty  sense  for  melody, 
Pours  music  from  his  pipe  of  knotted  reeds, 
Lifting  the  ravished  soul  to  that  high  sphere 

Where  joy  and  pain  contend  for  mastery. 

Now  tittering  glee  the  grinning  Satyr  breeds, 

Now  flings  the  heart  in  tearful  depths  of  woe, 
Now  big-eyed  fear  the  shrinking  crowd  appalls, 
Now  to  the  blithesome  dance  the  music  calls  ; 
•  Then  with  full  power,  and  long,  triumphant  flow 


THE    VISION    OF   THE    GOBLET.  295 

Of  swelling  notes  that  shake  the  rooted  soul, 
And  rise  and  fall  with  ocean's  measured  roll, 
He  lifts  to  Bacchus  his  resounding  lay  ; 
Tabor  and  drum  confess  the  potent  sway, 

And  join  their  muffled  notes. 
With  nodding  heads  and  brandished  arms, 

And  flashing  eyes,  and  swelling  throats, 

That  heave  with  song's  advancing  tides, 
The  crowd  obeys  the  cunning  master's  charms. 

A  murmured  hum  athwart  the  listeners  glides, 
While  still  the  pipes  their  pealing  notes  prolong, 

Piercing  the  heavens  with  wild  exultant  shout, 
Till,  maddened  by  fierce  harmony,  the  throng 

From  end  to  end  in  ecstasy  bursts  out, 
And  thus  to  Bacchus  pours  its  choral  song. 

Joy,  joy,  with  Bacchus  and  his  Satyr  train 
In  triumph  throbs  our  merry  Grecian  earth  ! 

Joy,  joy,  the  golden  time  has  come  again, 
A  god  shall  bless  the  vine's  illustrious  birth ! 
lo,  io,  Bacche ! 

0  breezes,  speed  across  the  mellow  lands, 
And  bear  his  coming  to  the  joyous  vine  ; 

Make  all  the  vineyards  wave  their  leafy  hands 
Upon  the  hills,  to  greet  this  pomp  divine  ! 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 

0  peaceful  triumph,  victory  without  tear, 
Or  human  cry,  or  drop  of  conquered  blood, 

Save  dew-beads  bright,  that  on  the  vine  appear, 
The  choral  shouts,  the  trampled  grape's  red  flood ! 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 


296  THE    VISION   OF   THE    GOBLET. 

Shout,  Hellas,  shout !  the  lord  of  joy  is  come, 
Bearing  the  mortal  Lethe  in  his  hands, 

To  make  the  wailing  lips  of  sorrow  dumb, 
To  bind  sad  memory's  eyes  with  rosy  bands, 
lo,  io,  Bacche ! 

Shout,  Hellas,  shout !  he  bears  the  soul  of  love, 
Within  each  glowing  drop  Promethean  fire  ; 

The  coldest  maids  beneath  its  power  shall  move, 
And  bashful  youths  be  bold  with  hot  desire. 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 

Long  may  the  ivy  deck  thy  sculptured  brows, 
Long  may  the  goat  upon  thy  altars  bleed, 

Long  may  thy  temples  hear  our  tuneful  vows, 
Chiming  accordant  to  the  vocal  reed. 
Io,  io,  Bacche  1 

Long  may  the  hills  and  nodding  forests  move, 
Responsive  echoing  thy  festal  drum, 

Grief-scattering  Bacchus,  twice-born  son  of  Jove- 
Our  hearts  are  singing,  let  our  lips  be  dumb. 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 


ODE  TO  ENGLAND. 

0  !  DAYS  of  shame  !  0  !  days  of  woe ! 
Of  helpless  shame,  of  helpless  woe  ! 

The  times  reveal  thy  nakedness, 

Thy  utter  weakness,  deep  distress. 

There  is  no  help  in  all  the  land ; 

Thy  eyes  may  wander  to  and  fro, 

Yet  find  no  succor.     Every  hand 

Has  weighed  the  guinea,  poised  the  gold, 
Chaffered  and  bargained,  bought  and  sold, 
Until  the  sinews,  framed  for  war, 
Can  grasp  the  sword  and  shield  no  more. 

Their  trembling  palms  ai-e  stretched  to  thee  ; 
Purses  are  offered,  heaping  hoards  — 

The  plunder  of  the  land  and  sea  — 

Are  proffered,  all  too  eagerly, 

But  thou  must  look  abroad  for  swords. 

These  are  the  gods  ye  trusted  in  ; 
For  these  ye  crept  from  sin  to  sin  ; 

Made  honor  cheap,  made  station  dear, 
Made  wealth  a  lord,  made  truth  a  drudge, 
Made  venal  interest  the  sole  judge 
Of  principles  as  high  and  clear 
As  heaven  itself. 
With  glittering  pelf 


298  ODE    TO    ENGLAND. 

Ye  gilt  the  coward,  knave,  and  fool, 

Meted  the  earth  out  with  a  rule 

Of  gold,  weighed  nations  in  your  golden  scales  ! 

And,  surely,  this  law  never  fails  — 
What  else  may  change,  this  law  stands  fast  — 

"  The  golden  standard  is  the  thing 

To  which  the  beggar,  lord,  and  king, 
And  all  that 's  earthly,  come  at  last." 
0,  mighty  gods  !    0,  noble  trust ! 

They  are  your  all ;  ye  cannot  look 

Back  to  the  faith  ye  once  forsook  ; 
The  past  is  dry  and  worthless  dust ; 

Gold,  gold  is  all !    Ye  cannot  fill 

Your  brains  with  legends  vague  and  thin ; 
Hang  up  your  arms  amidst  their  rust : 

These  are  the  gods  ye  trusted  in  ; 

They  can  deliver  you,  and  will ! 

0  !  bitter  waking !  mocking  dream  ! 

The  gilt  has  worn  away, 

The  idols  are  but  clay, 
Their  pride  is  overthrown,  their  glories  only  seem  ! 

The  land  is  full  of  fear, 

Men  pale  at  what  they  hear, 
The   widowed  matrons  sob,  the  orphaned  children 

cry'; 

There 's   desolation    everywhere,    there 's  not  one 
comfort  nigh ! 

The  nations  stand  agaze, 

In  dubious  amaze, 

To  see  Britannia's  threatening  form, 
That  loomed  gigantic  mid  the  splendid  haze 

Through  which  they  saw  her  tower  — 

\.s,  at  the  morning  hour, 


ODE   TO    ENGLAND.  299 

The  spectral  figure  strides  across  her  misty  hills  — 
Shrink  to  a  pigmy  when  the  storm 

Rends  the  delusive  cloud, 

And  shows  her  weak  and  bowed, 
A  feeble  crone  that  hides  for  shelter  from  her  ills. 

0,  mother  of  our  race,  can  nothing  break 

This  leaden  apathy  of  thine  ? 

Think  of  the  long  and  glorious  line 
Of  heroes  who  beside  the  Stygian  lake 

Hearken  for  news  from  thee  ! 

Apart  their  forms  I  see, 

With  muffled  heads  and  tristful  faces  bowed  — 
Heads  once  so  high,  faces  so  calm  and  proud ! 
The  Norman  fire  burns  low 

In  William's  haughty  heart ; 

The  mirth  has  passed  away 
From  Coeur  de  Lion's  ample  brow ; 

In  sorrowful  dismay 
The  warlike  Edwards  and  the  Henrys  stand, 

Stung  with  a  shameful  smart ; 

While  the  eighth  Harry,  with  his  close-clutched  hand, 
Smothers  the  passion  in  his  ireful  soul ; 

Or  his  fierce  eye-balls  roll 
Where  his  bold  daughter  beats  her  sharp  foot-tip, 

And  gnaws  her  quivering  lip. 

While  the  stern,  crownless  king,  who  strode  between 
Father  and  son,  and  put  them  both  aside, 

With  straight  terrific  glare, 

As  a  lion  from  his  lair, 
Asks  with  his  eyes  such  questions  keen 
As  his  crowned  brothers  neither  dare 
To  answer  nor  abide. 


300  ODE    TO    ENGLAND. 

How  shall  he  make  reply, 

The  shadow  that  draws  nigh, 
The  latest  comer,  the  great  Duke, 

Whose  patient  valor,  blow  by  blow, 

Wrought  at  a  Titan's  overthrow, 
And  gave  his  pride  its  first  and  last  rebuke  ? 
What  shall  he  say  when  this  heroic  band 
Catch  at  his  welcome  hand, 

And  trembling,  half  in  fear, 

Half  in  their  eagerness  to  hear, 
"  What  of  our  England  ?  "  ask  ? 
Ah  !  shameful,  shameful  task ! 
To  tell  to  souls  like  these 
Of  her  languid  golden  ease, 

Of  her  tame,  dull  history ! 

How  she  frowns  upon  the  free, 

How  she  ogles  tyranny  ; 

How  with  despots  she  coquets  ; 

How  she  swears,  and  then  forgets  ; 

How  she  plays  at  fast  and  loose 

With  right  and  gross  abuse  ; 

How  she  fawns  upon  her  foes, 

And  lowers  upon  her  friends  ; 

Growing  weaker,  day  by  day, 

In  her  mean  and  crooked  way, 

Piling  woes  upon  her  woes, 

As  tottering  she  goes 

Down  the  path  where  falsehood  ends. 
Methinks  I  see  the  awful  brow 

Of  Cromwell  wrinkle  at  the  tale  forlorn, 
See  the  hot  flushes  on  his  forehead  glow, 

Hear  his  low  growl  of  scorn ! 
Is  this  the  realm  these  souls  bequeathed  to  you, 


ODE    TO    ENGLAND.  301 

That,  with  all  its  many  faults, 
Its  hasty  strides  and  tardy  halts, 

To  the  truth  was  ever  true  ? 
0  !  shame  not  the  noble  dead, 
Who  through  storm  and  slaughter  led, 
With  toil,  and  care,  and  pain, 
Winning  glory,  grain  by  grain, 
Till  no  land  that  history  knows 
With  such  unutterable  splendor  glows  ! 

Awake  !  the  spirit  yet  survives 

To  baffle  fate  and  conquer  foes ! 
If  not  among  your  lords  it  lives, 
Your  chartered  governors,  if  they 
Have  not  the  power  to  lead,  away, 

Away  with  lords  !  and  give  the  men 
Whom  nature  gives  the  right  to  sway, 
Who  love  their  country  with  a  fire 
That,  for  her  darkness,  burns  the  higher  — 

Give  these  the  rule  !     Abase  your  ken, 
Look  downward  to  your  heart  for  those 
In  whom  your  ancient  life-blood  flows, 

And  let  their  souls  aspire  I 
Somewhere,  I  trust  in  God,  remain, 
Untainted  by  the  golden  stain, 

Men  worthy  of  an  English  sire  ; 
Bold  men,  who  dare,  in  wrong's  despite, 
Speak  truth,  and  strike  a  blow  for  right ; 
Men  who  have  ever  put  their  trust 

Neither  in  rank  nor  gold, 

Nor  aught  that 's  bought  and  sold, 
But  in  high  aims,  and  God  the  just ! 


302  ODE    TO    ENGLAND. 

Seek  through  the  land, 
On  every  hand, 

Rear  up  the  strong,  the  feeble  lop  ; 
Laugh  at  the  star  and  civic  fur, 

The  blazoned  shield  and  gartered  knee 
The  gewgaws  of  man's  infancy  ; 

And  if  the  search  be  vain, 
Give  it  not  o'er  too  suddenly  — 
I  swear  the  soul  still  lives  in  thee  I  — 
Down  to  thy  lowest  atoms  drop, 
Down  to  the  very  dregs,  and  stir 
The  People  to  the  top  I 

March,  1855. 


THE   QUEEN'S   TOUCH. 

AN   INCIDENT   IN   THE   EARLY    LIFE   OF    H.  C.    M.    ISABEL   II. 

OK  a  Good  Friday,  as  it  once  befell, 
The  gentle  lady,  royal  Isabel, 
Stepped  from  her  palace  with  a  fair  array 
Of  Spanish  nobles.     Plumes,  and  banners  gay, 
And  lines  of  burnished  halberds  made  a  lane, 
Through  which  the  sovereign  and  her  glittering  train 
Swept  like  a  gorgeous  cloud  across  the  face 
Of  some  bright  sunset.     Even  was  her  pace, 
And  a  deep  calm  dwelt  in  her  steady  eyes, 
August  with  queenly  power,  and  counsel  wise 
To  sway  a  realm  ;  yet  round  her  playful  lip 
The  child  still  lingered,  and  a  smile  would  slip, 
Like  a  stray  sunbeam  o'er  a  dimpled  rose, 
When  the  crowd  shouted,  or  an  eager  close 
Of  loyal  people  broke  the  martial  line, 
And  stayed  her  progress.     One  could  scarce  incline 
Whether  to  call  her  queen  or  child ;  so  bright 
And  innocent  a  spirit  lit  the  might 
Of  awful  sovereignty,  as  on  she  went 
Bearing  the  diadem  of  Charles  unbent  — 
Ay,  smiling  under  it,  as  if  the  weight 
Of  empery  heaven  lightened  to  the  date 
Of  her  few  years.     For  surely  heaven  may  bend 
In  mercy  to  the  merciful,  and  lend 


304  THE  QUEEN'S  TOUCH. 

Its  strength  to  her  who  for  the  weak  can  feel, 

As  gracious  Isabel.     The  traitor's  steel ; 

The  storms  that  broke  around  her  princely  head, 

When  they  who  should  have  shielded  her,  instead 

Of  muttering  plots  and  tempting  her  with  guile, 

Turned  from  her  side  ;  the  anarchy  the  while 

That  rent  her  kingdom,  and  made  Spain's  great  throne 

Rock  as  if  startled  by  the  earthquake's  groan  — 

All  these,  and  more,  she  dared,  and  could  withstand, 

Because  God  led  her  by  the  trusting  hand, 

And  showed  the  mercy  she  has  ever  shown. 

You  who  look  doubtfully,  with  sighs  or  sneers, 
Citing  the  history  of  her  after  years, 
Remember  this  —  and  let  the  thought  atone 
For  many  a  weakness,  many  an  error  done 
Out  of  the  lessons  of  her  early  days, 
When  all  conspired  to  lead  her  evil  ways  — 
Her  faults  were  taught,  her  virtues  are  her  own. 

Across  the  flower-strewn  way  she  slowly  walked, 
Wondering  at  many  thiags  ;  anon,  she  talked 
To  the  grave  minister  who  moved  beside 
His  youthful  mistress  with  a  haughty  stride 
Of  strained  decorum.     Curiously  she  asked 
Of  this  and  that ;  and  much  the  lord  was  tasked 
To  answer  all  her  questions,  which  did  flow 
Like  ripples  on  the  shore,  —  ere  one  could  go 
Another  leaped  above  it.     For  her  state 
Was  new  to  her,  and  not  a  rustic's  mate 
Among  the  throng  more  marvelled  at  the  sight, 
Nor  drew  from  it  a  more  sincere  delight, 


THE    QUEEX'S    TOUCH.  305 

Than  royal  Isabel.     More  pleased  she  seemed 

At  the  hoarse  shouts,  and  at  the  love  that  beamed 

From  the  tanned  faces  of  the  common  crowd, 

Than  at  the  courtly  whispers,  or  the  proud 

Looks  of  fixed  dignity.     The  beggar's  rags 

Were  dearer  to  her  than  the  silken  flags 

That  coiled  above  her ;  and  his  vivas  drowned 

The  swell  of  music,  and  the  ringing  sound 

Of  the  saluting  steel.     And  once  she  turned 

Full  on  a  lord,  while  every  feature  burned 

With  a  new  thought ;  and,  pointing  unto  one 

111  clad,  indeed,  yet  with  a  face  o'errun 

With  honest  love,  said,  laughing  at  the  close, 

"  Why  wear  you  purple,  and  he  ragged  clothes  ?  " 

Much  the  Don  talked  about  society, 

And  laws,  and  customs,  and  how  all  agree 

To  make  one  world.     Although  he  talked  the  thing 

Clear  to  himself,  and  shaped  a  pretty  ring 

Of  binding  words,  no  answering  look  he  caught 

From  the  Queen's  eyes  ;  and  when  he  gravely  sought 

To  draw  a  word  of  sympathetic  cheer, 

Upon  her  cheek  he  marked  a  long,  bright  tear  : 

So  he  passed  on  in  silence,  she  in  thought. 

At  length  the  minster's  arch  above  them  bent, 
And  through  its  gloom  the  shining  courtiers  went, 
Making  strange  light  within  that  dusky  pile. 
And  all  along  the  borders  of  the  aisle 
Old  chiefs  and  heroes  in  white  grandeur  slept 
Upon  the  tombs.     Their  marble  faces  kept 
A  settled  quiet,  as  they  upward  gazed 
Upon  their  arms  and  spoils,  above  them  raised, 
VOL.  n.  20 


306  THE  QUEEN'S  TOUCH. 

Along  the  rafters,  each  in  solemn  ward. 
Some  with  their  hands  upon  a  sculptured  sword, 
Some  clasped  in  prayer,  and  others,  full  of  grace, 
Crossed  on  their  breasts.     The  courtiers'  noisy  pace 
Broke  the  long  silence  with  a  painful  jar, 
Unmeet  and  alien.     Trophies  of  old  war  — 
Pennons  blood-stained,  torn  flags,  and  banners,  fell 
And  rose  again,  o'er  royal  Isabel : 
As  if  the  soul  that  fired  her  ancient  strain 
Were  roused,  and  all  the  chivalry  of  Spain 
Breathed  in  their  hollow  sepulchres  beneath, 
And  waved  the  banners  with  a  mighty  breath. 
Saint  George's  cross  was  shaken  as  with  dread ; 
The  lilied  silk  of  France  shrank,  as  when  spread 
O'er  Pavia's  bloody  field  ;  a  second  shame 
Thrilled  the  Dutch  standards,  as  if  Alva's  name 
Were  heard  among  them  ;  the  horse-tails  of  the  Moor 
Streamed  to  the  wind,  as  when  they  fled  before 
The  furious  Cid  ;  spears  glittered,  swords  were  stirred 
Within  their  scabbards  ;  one  in  fancy  heard 
The  trumpets  murmur,  and  a  warlike  peal 
Through    the    closed    casques  —  "  Saint  Jago   for 

Castile !  " 

If  she  stepped  on  more  proudly,  it  was  not 
That  Isabel  herself  was  proud.     The  spot 
Of  crimson  on  her  forehead  was  a  gleam 
Of  the  old  glory,  a  reflected  beam 
Cast  from  the  trophies,  that  brought  back  the  day 
When  her  sires'  sceptre  swept  the  world.     A  ray 
Of  keenest  sunshine  through  the  aisles  shot  down, 
And  blazed  amid  the  jewels  of  her  crown, 
Like  a  saint's  aureole,  as  the  Queen  drew  nigh 
The  holy  altar.     With  a  gentle  sigh 


THE    QUEER'S    TOUCH.  30*7 

The  organ  whispered  through  the  incense-smoke, 

Trilling  above  her,  like  a  lark  awoke 

Some  misty  morning,  till  she  touched  the  stair 

Of  the  high  altar;  when,  with  sudden  blare, 

In  one  grand  storm  of  music  burst  the  whole 

Torrent  of  sound  o'erhead,  and  roll  on  roll 

Crashed  through  the  building,  from  its  hundred  throats 

Of  shivering  metal  thundering  forth  the  notes. 

Radiant  with  sunlight,  wrapt  in  holy  sound 

And  fragrant  vapors,  that  in  spirals  wound 

Up  through  the  pillars  of  the  choir,  the  Queen 

Paused,  as  in  doubt,  before  a  sable  screen 

Upon  the  altar,  and  a  courtier  led, 

By  a  sweet  look,  beside  her  —  "  Sir,"  she  said, 

"  Why  are  those  papers  on  the  altar  pall  ?  " 

"  They  hold  the  names,  your  majesty,  of  all 

Condemned  to  death  by  law.     The  one  you  touch 

Shall  surely  live.  —  The  ancient  rite  is  such." 

Without  a  pause  to  weigh  it,  the  great  thought 

Burst  from  her  nature,  as  she  sprang  and  caught, 

Hither  and  thither,  at  each  fatal  scrawl  — 

Gathered  the  whole  —  and,  ere  she  let  them  fall, 

A  gracious  look  to  the  rapt  court  she  gave, 

And  softly  said,  "  See,  sefiors,  see,  I  have 

A  little  hand,  but  I  can  touch  them  all !  " 


I  HAVE  a  cottage  where  the  sunbeams  lurk, 
Peeping  around  its  gables  all  day  long, 
Brimming  the  butter-cups  until  they  drip 
With  molten  gold,  like  overcharged  crucibles. 
Here,  wondering  why  the  morning-glories  close 
Their  crumpled  edges  ere  the  dew  is  dry, 
Great  lilies  stand,  and  stretch  their  languid  buds 
In  the  full  blaze  of  noon,  until  its  heat 
Has  pierced  them  to  their  centres.     Here  the  rose 
Is  larger,  redder,  sweeter,  longer-lived, 
kess  thorny,  than  the  rose  of  other  lands. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  south  wind  comes, 

Cool  from  the  spicy  pines,  or  with  a  breath 

Of  the  mid  ocean  salt  upon  its  lips, 

And  a  low,  lulling,  dreamy  sound  of  waves, 

To  breathe  upon  me,  as  I  lie  along 

On  my  white  violets,  marvelling  at  the  bees 

That  toil  but  to  be  plundered,  or  the  mart 

Of  striving  men,  whose  bells  I  sometimes  hear 

When  they  will  toss  their  brazen  throats  at  heaven, 

And  howl  to  vex  me.     But  the  town  is  far ; 

And  all  its  noises,  ere  they  trouble  me, 

Must  take  a  convoy  of  the  scented  breeze, 

And  climb  the  hills,  and  cross  the  bloomy  dales, 

And  catch  a  whisper  in  the  swaying  grain, 

And  bear  unfaithful  echoes  from  the  wood, 


"I    HAVE    A    COTTAGE."  309 

And  mix  with   birds,   and   streams,   and   fluttering 

leaves, 

And  an  old  ballad  which  the  shepherd  hums, 
Straying  in  thought  behind  his  browsing  flock. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  wild  bee  comes 
To  hug  the  thyme,  and  woo  its  dainties  forth  ; 
Where  humming-birds,  plashed  with  the  rainbow's 

dies, 

Poise  on  their  whirring  wings  before  the  door, 
And  drain  my  honeysuckles  at  a  draught. 
Ah,  giddy  sensualist,  how  thy  blazing  throat 
Flashes  and  throbs,  while  thou  dost  pillage  me 
Of  all  my  virgin  flowers  !     And  then,  away  — 
What  eye  may  follow !     But  yon  constant  robin  : 
Spring,  summer,  winter,  still  the  same  clear  song 
At  morn  and  eve,  still  the  contented  hop, 
And  low  sly  whistle,  when  the  crumbs  are  thrown  : 
Yet  he  is  jealous  of  my  tawny  thrush, 
And  drives  him  off,  ere  a  faint  symphony 
Ushers  the  carol  warming  in  his  breast. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  winter  winds 

Wreck  their  rude  passions  on  the  neighboring  hills, 

And  crawl  down,  shattered  by  the  edged  rocks, 

To  hide  themselves  among  the  stalactites, 

That  roof  my  frosty  cave,  against  midsummer  ; 

Or  in  the  bosom  of  the  stream  they  creep, 

Numbing  the  gurgling  current  till  it  lies 

Stark,  frozen,  lifeless,  silent  as  the  moon  ; 

Or  wrestle  with  the  cataracts  ;  or  glide, 

Rustling  close  down,  among  the  crisp  dead  grass, 


310  "I    HAVE    A    COTTAGE." 

To  chase  the  awkward  rabbits  from  their  haunts  ; 
Or  beat  my  roof  with  its  own  sheltering1  boughs  ;  — 
Yet  never  daunt  me  !     For  my  flaming  logs 
Pour  up  the  chimney  a  defiant  roar, 
While  Shakspeare  and  a  flask  of  southern  wine, 
Brown  with  the  tan  of  Spain,  or  red  Bordeaux, 
Charm  me  until  the  crocus  says  to  me, 
In  its  own  way,   "  Come  forth  ;  I  've  brought  the 
spring !  " 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  brook  runs  by, 

Making  faint  music  from  the  rugged  stones 

O'er  which  it  slides  ;  and  at  the  height  of  Prime, 

When  snows  are  melting  on  the  misty  hills 

That  front  the  south,  this  brook  comes  stealing  up 

To  wash  my  door-stone.     Oft  it  bears  along, 

Sad  sight,  a  funeral  of  primroses  — 

Washed  from  the  treacherous  bank  to  which  they 

grew 

With  too  fond  faith  —  all  trooping  one  by  one, 
With  nodding  heads  in  seemly  order  ranged, 
Down  its  dull  current  towards  the  endless  sea. 
0,  brook,  bear  me,  with  such  a  holy  calm, 
To  the  vast  ocean  that  awaits  for  me, 
And  I  know  one  whose  mournful  melody 
Shall  make  your  name  immortal  as  my  love. 

I  have  a  cottage  in  the  cloven  hills  ; 

Through  yonder  peaks  the  flow  of  sunlight  comes, 

Dragging  its  sluggish  tide  across  the  path 

Of  the  reluctant  stars  which  silently 

Are  buried  in  it.     Through  yon  western  gap 

Day  ebbs  away,  leaving  a  margin  round, 


"I   HAVE    A    COTTAGE."  311 

Of  sky  and  cloud,  drowned  in  its  sinking  flood, 

Till  Venus  shimmers  through  the  rising  blue, 

And  lights  her  sisters  up.     Here  lie  the  moonbeams, 

Hour  after  hour,  becalmed  in  the  still  trees  ; 

Or  on  the  weltering  leaves  of  the  young  grass 

Rest  half  asleep,  rocked  by  some  errant  wind. 

Here  are  more  little  stars,  on  winter  nights, 

Than  sages  reckon  in  their  heavenly  charts  ; 

For  the  brain  wanders,  and  the  dizzy  eye 

Aches  at  their  sum,  and  dulls,  and  winks  with  them. 

The  Northern  Lights  come  down  to  greet  me  here, 

Playing  fantastic  tricks,  above  my  head, 

With  their  long  tongues  of  fire,  that  dart  and  catch, 

From  point  to  point,  across  the  firmament, 

As  if  the  face  of  heaven  were  passing  off 

In  low  combustion  ;  or  the  kindling  night 

Were  slowly  flaming  to  a  fatal  dawn, 

Wide-spread  and  sunless  as  the  day  of  doom. 

I  have  a  cottage  cowering  in  the  trees, 
And  seeming  to  shrink  lower  day  by  day. 
Sometimes  I  fancy  that  the  growing  boughs 
Have  dwarfed  my  dwelling  ;  but  the  solemn  oaks, 
That  hang  above  my  roof  so  lovingly, 
They  too  have  shrunk.     I  know  not  how  it  is  : 
For  when  my  mother  led  me  by  the  hand 
Around  our  pale,  it  seemed  a  weary  walk  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  sharp  roof  nestled  there, 
Among  the  trees,  and  they  propped  heaven.     Alas  ! 
Who  leads  me  now  around  the  bushy  pale  ? 
Who  shows  the  birds'  nests  in  the  twilight  leaves  ? 
Who  catches  me  within  her  fair  round  arms, 
When  autumn  shakes  the  acorns  on  our  roof 


312  "I   HAVE   A    COTTAGE." 

To  startle  me  ?     I  know  not  how  it  is  : 

The  house  has  shrunk,  perhaps,  as  our  poor  hearts, 

When  they  both  broke  at  parting,  and  mine  closed 

Upon  a  memory,  shutting  out  the  world 

Like  a  sad  anchorite.  —  Ah  !  that  gusty  morn  ! 

But  here  she  lived,  here  died,  and  so  will  I. 

I  have  a  cottage  —  murmur  if  ye  will, 
Ye  men  whose  lips  are  prison-doors  to  thoughts 
Born,  with  mysterious  struggles,  in  the  heart ; 
And,  maidens,  let  your  store  of  hoarded  smiles 
Break  from  their  dimples,  like  the  spreading  rings 
That  skim  a  lake,  when  some  stray  blossom  falls 
Warm  in  its  bosom.     Ah,  you  cannot  tell 
Why  violets  choose  not  a  neighboring  bank, 
Why  cowslips  blow  upon  the  self-same  bed, 
Why  year  by  year  the  swallow  seeks  one  nest, 
Why  the  brown  wren  rebuilds  her  hairy  home. 
0,  sightless  cavillers,  you  do  not  know 
How  deep  roots  strike,  nor  with  what  tender  care 
The  soft  down  lining  warms  the  nest  within. 
Think  as  you  will,  murmur  and  smile  apace  — 
I  have  a  cottage  where  my  days  shall  close, 
Calm  as  the  setting  of  a  feeble  star. 


ODE   TO   A  MOUNTAIN  OAK. 

PROUD  mountain  giant,  whose  majestic  face, 
From  thy  high  watch-tower  on  the  steadfast  rock, 
Looks  calmly  o'er  the  trees  that  throng  thy  base, 
How  long  hast  thou  withstood  the  tempest's  shock  ? 
How  long  hast  thou  looked  down  on  yonder  vale 

Sleeping  in  sun  before  thee  ; 
Or  bent  thy  ruffled  brow,  to  let  the  gale 

Steer  its  white,  drifting  sails  just  o'er  thee  ? 

Strong  link  'twixt  vanished  ages ! 

Thou  hast  a  sage  and  reverend  look  ; 

As  if  life's  struggle,  through  its  varied  stages, 

Were  stamped  on  thee,  as  in  a  book. 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  tell  what  thou  hast  seen, 
Save  a  low  moaning  in  thy  troubled  leaves  ; 
And  canst  but  point  thy  scars,  and  shake  thy  head, 
With  solemn  warning,  in  the  sunbeam's  sheen  ; 
And  show  how  Time  the  mightiest  thing  bereaves, 
By  the  sere  leaves  that  rot  upon  thy  bed. 

Type  of  long-suffering  power  ! 

Even  in  my  gayest  hour, 

Thou  'dst  still  my  tongue,  and  send  my  spirit  far, 
To  wander  in  a  labyrinth  of  thought ; 
For  thou  hast  waged  with  Time  unceasing  war, 
And  out  of  pain  hast  sti-ength  and  beauty  brought. 


314  ODE    TO    A    MOUNTAIN'    OAK. 

Thou  amidst  storms  and  tempests  hadst  thy  birth, 
Upon  these  bleak  and  scantly-sheltering  rooks, 
Nor  much  save  storm  and  wrath  hast  known   on 

earth  ; 

Yet  nobly  hast  thou  bode  the  fiercest  shocks 
That  Circumstance  can  pour  on  patient  Worth. 

I  see  thee  springing,  in  the  vernal  time, 
A  sapling  weak,  from  out  the  barren  stone, 
To  dance  with  May  upon  the  mountain  peak  ; 
Pale  leaves  put  forth  to  greet  the  genial  clime, 
And  roots  shot  down  life's  sustenance  to  seek, 
While  mere  existence  was  a  joy  alone  — 

0  thou  wert  happy  then  ! 
On  Summer's  heat  thy  tinkling  leaflets  fed, 
Each  fibre  toughened,  and  a  little  crown 
Of  green  upon  thy  modest  brow  was  spread, 
To  catch  the  rain,  and  shake  it  gently  down. 

But  then  came  Autumn,  when 
Thy  dry  and  tattered  leaves  fell  dead  ; 

And  sadly  on  the  gale 

Thou  drop'dst  them  one  by  one  — 
Drop'dst  them,  with  a  low,  sad  wail, 

On  the  cold,  unfeeling  stone. 
Next  Winter  seized  thee  in  his  iron  grasp, 

And  shook  thy  bruised  and  straining  form  ; 
Or  locked  thee  in  his  icicle's  cold  clasp, 
And  piled  upon  thy  head  the  shorn  cloud's  snowy 

fleece. 

Wert  thou  not  joyful,  in  this  bitter  storm, 
That  the  green  honors,  which  erst  decked  thy  head, 
Sage  Autumn's  slow  decay,  had  mildly  shed  ? 


ODE    TO    A    MOUNTAIN    OAK.  315 

Else,  with  their  weight,  they  'd  given  thy  ills  in 
crease, 
And  dragged  thee  helpless  from  thy  uptorn  bed. 

Year  after  year,  in  kind  or  adverse  fate, 

Thy  branches  stretched,  and  thy  young  twigs  put 

forth, 

Nor  changed  thy  nature  with  the  season's  date  : 
Whether  thou  wrestled'st  with  the  gusty  north, 
Or  beat  the  driving  rain  to  glittering  froth, 
Or  shook  the  snow-storm  from  thy  arms  of  might, 
Or  drank  the  balmy  dews  on  summer's  night ;  — 
Laughing  in  sunshine,  writhing  in  the  storm, 

Yet  wert  thou  still  the  same  ! 
Summer  spread  forth  thy  towering  form, 
And  Winter  strengthened  thy  great  frame. 

Achieving  thy  destiny 

On  went'st  thou  sturdily, 
Shaking  thy  green  flags  in  triumph  and  jubilee ! 

From  thy  secure  and  sheltering  branch 
The  wild  bird  pours  her  glad  and  fearless  lay, 
That,  with  the  sunbeams,  falls  upon  the  vale, 
Adding  fresh  brightness  to  the  smile  of  day. 
'Neath  those  broad  boughs  the  youth  has  told  love's 

tale  ; 

And  thou  hast  seen  his  hardy  features  blanch, 
Heard  his  snared  heart  beat  like  a  prisoned  bird, 
Fluttering  with  fear,  before  the  fowler  laid  ; 
While  his  bold  figure  shook  at  every  word  — 
The  strong  man  trembling  at  a  timid  maid  ! 
And  thou  hast  smiled  upon  their  children's  play; 
Seen  them  grow  old,  and  gray,  and  pass  away. 


316  ODE   TO    A    HOUNTAIX    OAK. 

Heard  the  low  prattle  of  the  thoughtless  child, 
Age's  cold  wisdom,  and  the  lessons  mild 
Which  patient  mothers  to  their  offspring  say  ;  — 
Yet  art  thou  still  the  same  ! 

Man  may  decay ; 
Race  after  race  may  pass  away  ; 
The  great  may  perish,  and  their  very  fame 

Rot  day  by  day  — 
Rot  noteless  with  their  once  inspired  clay : 

Still,  as  at  their  birth, 
Thou  stretchest  thy  long  arms  above  the  earth  — 

Type  of  unbending  Will ! 
Type  of  majestic,  self-sustaining  Power ! 
Elate  in  sunshine,  firm  when  tempests  lower, 
May  thy  calm  strength  my  wavering  spirit  fill ! 
0  let  me  learn  from  thee, 
Thou  proud  and  steadfast  tree, 
To  bear  unmurmuring  what  stern  Time  may  send  ; 
Nor  'neath  life's  ruthless  tempests  bend  : 
But  calmly  stand  like  thee, 
Though  wrath  and  storm  shake  me, 
Though  vernal  hopes  in  yellow  Autumn  end, 
And,  strong  in  Truth,  work  out  my  destiny. 
Type  of  long-suffering  Power  ! 
Type  of  unbending  Will ! 
Strong  in  the  tempest's  hour, 
Bright  when  the  storm  is  still ; 
Rising  from  every  contest  with  an  unbroken  heart, 
Strengthened  by  every  struggle,  emblem  of  might 

thou  art ! 
Sign  of  what  man  can  compass,  spite  of  an  adverse 

state, 

Still,  from  thy  rocky  summit,  teach  us  to  war  with 
Fate! 


THE   RIVER  AND  THE   MAIDEN 

PROM  the  sunset  flows  the  river, 
Melting  all  its  waves  in  one  ; 

Not  a  ripple,  not  a  quiver, 

On  the  flaming  water,  ever 
Poured  from  the  descending  sun. 

Seeming  like  a  pathway  lately 
Radiant  with  an  angel's  tread  ; 

And  yon  vessel,  moving  stately, 

Is  the  heavenly  one  sedately 

Walking  with  his  wings  outspread. 

What  a  quiet !    Through  the  branches, 

Silently  the  orioles  skip  ; 
Not  again  the  fish-hawk  launches, 
Silently  his  plumes  he  stanches, 

Silently  the  sedges  drip. 

Other  sights,  and  loud  commotion, 
Fill  this  tranquil  stream  by  day  ; 
With  a  solemn  swaying  motion, 
Wave-worn  ships  forsake  the  ocean, 
Bound  from  countries  leagues  away ; 

Odorous  with  their  eastern  spices, 
Rich  with  gems  of  the  Brazils, 


318  THE    RIVER   AND    THE    MAIDEN. 

Persian  silks  of  quaint  devices, 
Nameless  things  of  wondrous  prices, 
Luscious  wines  from  Spanish  hills  ; 

Furs  from  the  shy  ermine  riven, 

Ingots  of  Peruvian  mould, 
Where  the  deadly  tropic  levin     . 
Crashes  from  the  blazing  heaven, 

Piercing  earth  with  veins  of  gold. 

But  amid  the  sacred  quiet 
Of  this  gentle  evening-time, 

Toil  and  sin  have  ceased  their  riot ; 

One  might  judge  the  awful  fiat 

Were  removed  from  Adam's  crime. 

Holiest  eve,  thy  light  discloses 

Holiest  things  ;  for  through  the  shades 

Mark  I  where  my  love  reposes, 

Sitting  there,  amid  the  roses, 
Like  a  queen  amid  her  maids. 

Through  the  foliage,  green  and  golden, 
Round  her  head  the  sunbeams  dart, 

Haloing  her  like  some  saint  olden  ; 

And  a  chapel  calm  is  holden 
In  the  stillness  of  her  heart. 

Distant,  yet  I  guess  her  singing ; 

Haply,  some  poor  lay  of  mine, 
Loud  with  drum  and  trumpet  ringing, 
Or  of  shameless  goblets  swinging 

In  the  tumult  of  the  wine. 


THE    RIVER    AND   THE    MAIDEN.  319 

Wicked  ballad  !  all  unsuited 

To  the  genial  season's  calm, 
Harsh,  discordant,  sin-polluted  ;  — 
Yet  by  her  sweet  voice  transmuted 

Almost  to  a  vesper  psalm. 

See,  her  steps  are  hither  bending  ; 

This,  our  try  sting-place,  she  seeks  : 
All  her  wealth  is  with  her  wending, 
In  the  lights  and  shadows  blending 

Round  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks  ; 

In  the  eyes  that  melt  at  sorrow, 

In  the  wisdom  without  wiles, 
In  the  faith  that  will  not  borrow 
From  to-day  fear  of  to-morrow, 

In  a  countless  store  of  smiles  ; 

In  the  heart  that  cannot  flutter 

For  a  breath  of  flattery, 
In  the  mouth  that  cannot  utter 
Halting  lie  or  envious  mutter  — 

In  her  simple  love  for  me. 

Crowd  yon  river  with  your  barges  — 

All  the  navies  of  the  main  — 
Till  the  loaded  tide  enlarges, 
Till  it  bursts  its  wonted  marges, 

Deluging  the  pleasant  plain  ; 

Freight  them  with  the  precious  plunder 

Of  the  lands  beyond  the  sea  — 
Pearls  that  make  the  diver  wonder, 
All  the  virgin  silver  under 

The  great  hills  of  Potosi ; 


320  THE    RIVER   AND    THE    MAIDEN. 

All  the  real  and  fabled  riches 

Of  the  haughty  Persian  Khan, 
All  the  gold  that  so  bewitches, 
All  the  gorgeous  broidered  stitches 
Of  the  girls  of  Hindostan  ; 

All  the  furs,  the  wines,  the  treasures, 

Were  they  at  my  bidding  laid, 
Ten  times  doubled  in  their  measures, 
Ten  times  doubled  in  their  pleasures, 
I  would  rather  have  the  maid ! 


VESTIGIA  EETBOBSUM. 

THERE  is  a  spot  I  call  accursed, 
Because  my  thoughts  forever  wing 

Back  'to  its  gloom,  from  which  they  burst, 
And  settle  on  the  loathsome  thing. 

The  thick  black  pool,  the  waterfall, 

Swart  crags  that  nurture  noxious  vines ; 

The  long,  unbending  outer  wall 
Made  by  the  solid  depth  of  pines  ; 

The  reptile  weeds  that  crawl  about 
The  rotting  shore ;  the  glaring  flowers, 

Nauseous  with  odors,  that  give  out 

No  grace  of  heaven's  baptizing  showers  ; 

The  hollow  roar  that  fills  the  scene  — 
A  sound  caught  up,  and  smothered  in, 

By  the  close  pines  which  rise  between 
The  world  and  that  unholy  din. 

Long  ringed  serpents  idly  loll, 

With  haughty  eyes,  that  never  wink, 

Upon  the  oily  pool,  or  roll 

In  horrid  sports  around  its  brink. 
VOL.  n.  21 


322  VESTIGIA    RETRORSUM. 

All  creatures  that  abhor  the  day 

Find  harbor  in  the  rocky  lair  ; 
And  all  the  foulest  birds  of  prey 

Light  slowly  down,  and  settle  there. 

The  moving  powers  of  air  bewail 

This  blotch  upon  earth's -face  allowed  — 

Moaned  by  the  high  o'erpassing  gale, 
Wept  over  by  the  flying  cloud ; 

Cut  by  the  edged  hail  that  pours 

With  added  wrath  here,  choked  with  snow ; 
Scathed  by  the  thunder-cloud  that  roars 

Its  bolts  down,  blow  reechoing  blow. 

Still  it  arises  —  rocks  and  trees, 

Pool,  waterfall,  and  rank-grown  sod  — 

Above  my  better  memories, 

And  frowns  between  me  and  my  God. 

This  spot  had  once  another  look  ; 

Its  sounds  were  as  a  choral  psalm, 
Ere  sin's  and  sorrow's  hands  I  took, 

And  walked  between  them,  palm  in  palm. 

Ah !  yes,  her  beauty  gave  the  place 

A  wondrous  light ;  and  my  young  rhyme, 

Fervid  with  love's  creative  grace, 

Brought  on  the  Spring  before  its  time. 

Yea,  Summer  came  while  May  was  young, 
And  smiled  to  see  the  lovers  meet, 

And  all  her  flowery  censers  swung 

Their  perfumes  round  our  trysting-seat. 


VESTIGIA    RETRORSUM.  323 

Too  soon  the  vernal  bloom  !  too  soon 
The  year's  maturer  charms  !  their  dust 

Whirled  'twixt  us  and  the  harvest  moon 
Ere  Autumn  blew  his  frosty  gust. 

She  fell  —  0  God !  I  know  not  how — 

Fell  from  her  over-trust  in  me  ; 
The  flowers  had  turned  to  dust,  and  now 

Our  love  had  turned  to  misery. 

0  fool !  the  promised  fruit  I  sought 
Was  ripening  into  sweetest  use  ; 

1  snatched  it  ere  its  time,  and  caught 
Upon  my  lip  but  acrid  juice. 

Nature  shrank  from  me  all  aghast, 

Men  whispered  as  they  passed  my  door, 

The  precious  lights  of  life  waned  fast, 
And  heaven  seemed  further  than  before. 

I  would  have  done  her  right.     We  met : 
I  owned  my  crime,  I  urged  her  claim  ; 

There  was  no  ebb  of  love,  and  yet 
We  turned  aside  with  common  shame. 

We  could  not  get  our  eyes  to  meet, 

We  could  not  link  our  hands  again  ;       ^ 

I  talked,  but  words  had  ceased  to  cheat ; 
We  parted  —  'twas  relief  from  pain. 

Priest,  vow,  and  ring,  all  things  arrange  — 
Shrewd  brokers  in  our  worldly  mart  — 

I  tell  ye,  these  are  poor  exchange 
To  offer  for  a  broken  heart. 


324  VESTIGIA    RETKORSUM. 

When  Winter  heaped  her  grave  with  snow, 
What  right  had  I  to  make  my  moans  ? 

What  right  to  hope  a  tear  would  flow, 
Or  anger  heaven  with  selfish  groans  ? 

The  vanished  joy,  the  void  of  love, 
The  heart  that  nothing  fills  within, 

The  fear  that  dares  not  look  above, 
Are  relics  of  my  early  sin. 

Better  beside  her  shameful  tomb 
This  aching  head  for  years  had  lain, 

And  o'er  my  mound  the  Winter's  gloom 
Had  snowed  a  mountain  from  the  plain, 

Than  thus  to  live  —  a  life  in  death, 

That  courts  no  peace,  and  shuns  no  strife, 

A  slow,  dull  drawing  of  the  breath  — 
A  being  you  cannot  call  life. 

I  wonder  not  the  dell  is  cursed, 
Upon  this  world  a  hideous  blot ; 

I  only  wonder  earth  ne'er  burst, 
To  swallow  up  that  hateful  spot. 

The  pool,  the  wood,  the  waterfall, 

The  flowers,  the  cliffs,  the  gloom  —  my  brain 
Whirls  with  a  picture  of  ye  all  — 

I  rise,  and  curse  ye  all  again  1 


A  BALLAD   OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around.  —  COLERIDGE. 

0,  WHITHER  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? 

Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole 

I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 

As  you  would  live  and  thrive  ; 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 

No  man  may  sail  alive. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men  : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  be  right ; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then. 

0,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 

Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there, 

The  little  Indian  said  ; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 


326  A    BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN    FRANKLIN. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too  :  — 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new  I 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled. 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

Ho  !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled  ! 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,  'tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes  — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year  ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we  '11  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 

And  floundered  down  the  gale  ; 
The  ships  were  staid,  the  yards  were  manned, 

And  furled  the  useless  sail. 


A    BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOHN    FRANKLIN.  327 

The,  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come  — 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea  : 
Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin  ?  — 

A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes  — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year  : 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we  M  steer. 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more  ; 
!T  was  ice  around,  behind,  before  — 

My  God  !  there  is  no  sea  ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of  the  Esquimaux  ? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow. 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid, 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  as  strong  as  death  :  — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak  ! 


328  A   BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOIIX    FRAXKLIN. 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope  — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  1 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  over  the  main  flag-staff  ? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down,  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came  — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year  ; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around  ; 
But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death, 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

Hark !  heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns  ?  — 

And  there,  and  there,  again  ? 
;T  is  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 

Hurra  !  hurra  !  the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal : 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity  !  — 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 


A   BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN    FRANKLIN. 

Sir.  John,  where  are  the  English  fields, 
And  where  are  the  English  trees, 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass,  and  the  waving  grain. 

0  !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
0  1  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  1 
Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 

But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek  ; 
He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah  !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 
The  ice  grows  more  and  more ; 

More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 
More  patient  than  before. 

0  !  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 
We  '11  ever  see  the  land  ? 

;T  was  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 
Without  a  helping  hand. 

'Twas  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 

1  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come. 


330  A    BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN    FRAXKLIN. 

0  !  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done  — 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won  — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea ! 


THE   SIEGE   OF   CABEZON. 

"  La  justicia  del  rey  Don  Pedro." 

DON  PEDRO  before  Cabezon 

A  weary  time  had  lain, 
Through  summer's  heat,  through  winter's  frost, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  rain. 

Still  Trastamara's  rebel  flag 

Flapped  in  the  mountain  gale, 
And  still  the  baffled  monarch  paced 

In  ire  the  tented  vale. 

"  Now,  by  my  crown,"  Don  Pedro  swore, 

And  clashed  his  armed  hand, 
"  I  'd  give  my  dearest  year  of  life, 

Upon  that  rock  to  stand  ! 

"  I  'd  sprinkle  all  the  path  between 

This  valley  and  yon  crag, 
With  my  best  blood,  to  lay  a  hand 

Upon  that  vaunting  flag  !  " 

"  As  well  Don  Pedro  might  besiege 

The  eagle's  dizzy  nest," 
A  knight  replied ;  and  idly  trimmed 

The  favors  on  his  crest. 


332  THE    SIEGE   OF    CABEZON. 

"  A  train  of  damsels  were  as  well, 

To  stare  at  yonder  tower, 
As  this  array  of  martial  men, 

Drawn  out  with  useless  power." 

"  Ay,"  laughed  Don  Pedro,  moodily, 

Beneath  his  lowering  brow, 
"  Arms  might  be  kept  for  holidays, 

If  always  used  as  now. 

"  Yet  here  I  '11  lay,  hap  what  will  hap, 

Till  famine  drive  them  out."  — 
Just  then,  from  the  left  wing  arose 

A  long,  triumphant  shout. 

"  What  means  that  cry  ? "  —  "  Two  men-at-arms, 

Flying  from  Cabezon, 
Were  by  an  outpost  of  your  line 

Surprised,  and  seized  upon." 

"  Bring  in  the  prisoners."  — Down  they  knelt 

Beneath  Don  Pedro's  eye. 
"  Ha  1  traitors,  have  ye  fled  your  liege, 

And  come  to  me  to  die  ? " 

"To  die,  Don  Pedro,  if  you  will, 

Rather  than  bear  the  stain 
Of  those  worse  traitors  unto  heaven 

Who  at  their  posts  remain." 

"  Speak  out :  I  '11  listen.     Do  not  fear 

To  make  your  story  long  : 
Gramercy !  we  have  time  enough 

To  tire  a  woman's  tongue  !  " 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CABEZON.  333 

Don  Pedro  yawned,  and  stretched  himself; 

But,  as  the  story  ran, 
I  ween,  he  bounded  to  his  feet. 

Thus  spake  the  foremost  man  : 

"We  guarded  rocky  Cabezon  — 

Unfaltering,  nothing  loath  — 
Till  faith  turned  into  mutiny, 

And  guilt  sprang  up  from  sloth  ; 

"  Till  all  our  lazy  garrison 

Stood  muttering  apart, 
And  framing  wicked  stratagems, 

To  vex  the  Governor's  heart. 

"And  now  'twas  this,  and  now  'twas  that  — 
Fierce  murmurs,  huge  demands  — 

Forever  closing  with  the  threat 
To  yield  them  to  your  hands. 

"  The  Governor  rendered  all  to  them, 

Eather  than  aught  to  you  ; 
But,  day  by  day,  his  care-worn  face 

Paler  and  paler  grew. 

"  Daily  his  wife  and  daughter  found 

The  once  so  ready  smile 
Came  slower  to  his  lips,  and  staid 

Thereon  a  shorter  while. 

"  Yet  daily,  by  the  old  man's  side, 

They  paced  around  the  wall, 
Until  they  saw  how  with  one  look 

The  men  pursued  them  all : 


334  THE    SIEGE    OF    CABEZON. 

"  Until  they  saw  audacious  leers 

Upon  their  persons  cast, 
Or  snatched  their  skirts  from  mailed  hands 

That  clutched  them  as  they  passed. 

"  Or  heard  such  jests  as  well  might  start 

A  very  wanton's  blood,  — 
Jests  that  forced  modest  cheeks  to  flame 

Beneath  the  close-drawn  hood. 

"Then  to  their  bower  they  fled  amain, 
And  hid  their  dangerous  charms  ; 

And  strove  to  talk  away  their  tears, 
And  lull  their  wild  alarms. 

"  Bolder  and  bolder  grew  the  men, 
The  Governor  grew  more  wan  : 

At  length,  from  out  a  whispering  knot, 
Strode  one,  and  thus  began  : 

"  Bring  us  your  wife  and  daughter,  fool, 
Or  down  this  flag  shall  come.  — 

With  a  back-handed  blow,  our  chief 
Struck  the  gross  ruffian  dumb. 

"  At  once  swords  flashed,  and  visors  closed, 
And  spears  gleamed  all  around  ; 

And,  with  his  dagger  in  his  hand, 
The  wretch  sprang  from  the  ground. 

"We  spoke  in  vain" —  "  But  he  —  your  chief  ? 

Broke  in  Don  Pedro's  voice  : 
Then  held  his  breath,  and  bent  his  ear, 

To  hear  the  Governor's  choice. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CABEZON.  660 

"  This  said  he  —  Hold  that  flag  secure, 

And  ere  to-morrow's  sun 
All'mine  be  yours."  —  "  Heavens  !  "  cried  the  king, 

"  The  like  was  never  done  ! 

"  Shall  he  outdo  us  ?    Herald,  ho  ! 

And  let  a  parley  sound. 
Summon  the  Governor  to  the  wall, 

And  call  my  guard  around. 

"Ho  !  Governor,  send  your  traitors  down, 

And,  in  return  again, 
I  '11  send  you,  man  for  man,  my  best, 

All  belted  knights  of  Spain  ; 

"Who  shall  be  sworn,  by  book  and  cross, 

To  keep  you  safe  from  siege 
Against  all  comers,  whosoe'er, 

Even  against  their  liege." 

Low  bowed  the  Governor  :    "  King,  fair  words 

Are  barren  pay  and  cold  ; 
Yet  God  takes  up  a  poor  man's  debt, 

And  turns  his  thanks  to  gold. 

"  A  thousand  times  may  Heaven  o'erpay 

The  deed  you  do  for  me  ; 
And,  served  I  not  a  better  liege, 

I  'd  draw  my  sword  for  thee." 

The  king  smiled.     "  Knights,  my  future  foes, 

File  through  yon  rocky  arch.  — 
You,  with  the  love-knots  in  your  crest, 

Be  you  the  first  to  march  !  " 


336  THE    SIEGE    OF    CABEZON. 

Up  through  the  gates  of  Cabezon 

Don  Pedro's  bravest  went, 
And  straggling  down  the  narrow  path 

The  sullen  traitors  sent. 

Around  the  miscreants  silently 

The  royal  soldiers  drew. 
"  Now,  ballesteros,"  cried  the  king, 

"  Ye  know  what  work  to  do  1 

"  Stand  back,  thou  ghostly  man  of  God  I 
Thou  shalt  not  pray  nor  shrive  : 

If  't  were  within  my  power,  to  hell 
I  'd  hurry  them  alive  !  " 

A  hundred  maces  swang  aloft, 
A  hundred  blows  were  given, 

And  crushed  into  one  mangled  mass 
The  traitors  lay  unshriven. 

The  drawbridge  rose,  the  castle  gates 
Rolled  slowly  back  ;  and  when 

The  king  looked  up,  he  saw  the  walls 
Glitter  with  mail-clad  men. 

Slowly  Don  Pedro  walked,  as  one 

Who  turns  a  purpose  o'er, 
Plucking  the  lilies  in  his  path, 

Unconscious  what  he  bore  : 

Slowly  Don  Pedro  towards  his  camp 
Walked  through  the  setting  sun ; 

And  patiently  next  morn  he  lay 
Besieging  Cabezon. 


COUNT  CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD. 

"  The  King  of  Aragon  now  entered  Castile,  by  the  way  of  Soria  and 
Osma,  with  a  powerful  army  ;  and,  having  been  met  by  the  queen's 
forces,  both  parties  encamped  near  Sepulveda,  and  prepared  to  give 
battle.  This  engagement,  called,  from  the  field  where  it  took  place, 
de  la  Espina,  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  that  age.  The  dastardly 
Count  of  Lara  fled  at  the  first  shock,  and  joined  the  queen  at  Burgos, 
where  she  was  anxiously  awaiting  the  issue  ;  but  the  brave  Count  of 
Candespina  (Gomez  Gonzalez)  stood  his  ground  to  the  last,  and  died 
on  the  field  of  battle.  His  standard-bearer,  a  gentleman  of  the  house 
of  Olea,  after  having  his  horse  killed  under  him,  and  both  hands  cut 
off  by  sabre-strokes,  fell  beside  his  master,  still  clasping  the  standard 
with  his  arms,  and  repeating  his  war-cry  of  "  Olea  !  " 

MBS.  GEORGE'S  "ANNALS  OF  THE  QUEENS  OF  SPAIN." 

SCARCE  were  the  splintered  lances  dropped, 
Scarce  were  the  swords  drawn  out, 

Ere  recreant  Lara,  sick  with  fear, 
Had  wheeled  his  steed  about. 

His  courser  reared,  and  plunged,  and  neighed, 

Loathing  the  fight  to  yield, 
But  the  coward  spurred  him  to  the  bone, 

And  drove  him  from  the  field. 

Gonzalez  in  his  stirrups  rose  — 
"  Turn,  turn,  thou  traitor  knight ! 

Thou  bold  tongue  in  a  lady's  bower, 

Thou  dastard  in  a  fight !  " 
VOL.  n.  22 


338  COUNT  CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD. 

But  vainly  valiant  Gomez  cried 

Across  the  waning  fray  ; 
Pale  Lara  and  his  craven  band 

To  Burgos  scoured  away. 

"Now,  by  the  God  above  me,  sirs, 

Better  we  all  were  dead, 
Than  a  single  knight  among  ye  all 

Should  ride  where  Lara  led ! 

"  Yet  ye  who  fear  to  follow  me, 
As  yon  traitor,  turn  and  fly  ; 

For  I  lead  ye  not  to  win  a  field, 
I  lead  ye  forth  to  die. 

"  Olea,  plant  my  standard  here, 
Here,  on  this  little  mound, 

Here  raise  the  war-cry  of  thy  house, 
Make  this  our  rallying-ground. 

"  Forget  not,  as  thou  hop'st  for  grace, 
The  last  care  I  shall  have 

Will  be  to  hear  thy  battle-cry, 
And  see  that  standard  wave." 

Down  on  the  ranks  of  Aragon 
The  bold  Gonzalez  drove  ; 

And  Olea  raised  his  battle-cry, 
And  waved  the  flag  above. 

Slowly  Gonzalez's  little  band 
Gave  ground  before  the  foe ; 

But  not  an  inch  of  the  field  was  won 
Without  a  deadly  blow : 


COUNT  CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD.  339 

And  not  an  inch  of  the  field  was  won 

That  did  not  draw  a  tear 
From  the  widowed  wives  of  Aragon, 

That  fatal  news  to  hear. 

Backward  and  backward  Gomez  fought, 

And  high  o'er  the  clashing  steel, 
Plainer  and  plainer,  rose  the  cry, 

"  Olea  for  Castile  !  " 

Backward  fought  Gomez,  step  by  step, 

Till  the  cry  was  close  at  hand, 
Till  his  dauntless  standard  shadowed  him, 

And  there  he  made  his  stand. 

Mace,  sword,  and  axe,  rang  on  his  mail, 
Yet  he  moved  not  where  he  stood, 

Though  each  gaping  joint  of  armor  ran 
A  stream  of  purple  blood. 

As  pierced  with  countless  wounds  he  fell, 

The  standard  caught  his  eye, 
And  he  smiled,  like  an  infant  hushed  asleep, 

To  hear  the  battle-cry. 

Now,  one  by  one,  the  wearied  knights 

Had  fallen,  or  basely  flown  ; 
And  on  the  mound,  where  his  post  was  fixed, 

Olea  stood  alone. 

"  Yield  up  thy  banner,  gallant  knight  I 

Thy  lord  lies  on  the  plain, 
Thy  duty  has  been  nobly  done ; 

I  would  not  see  thee  slain." 


340  COUNT  CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD. 

"  Spare  pity,  King  of  Aragon  ; 

I  would  not  hear  thee  lie  ; 
My  lord  is  looking  down  from  heaven, 

To  see  his  standard  fly." 

"  Yield,  madman,  yield  !  thy  horse  is  down, 
Thou  hast  nor  lance  nor  shield  ; 

Fly  !  I  will  grant  thee  time."—"  This  flag 
Can  neither  fly  nor  yield  !  " 

They  girt  the  standard  round  about, 

A  wall  of  flashing  steel ; 
But  still  they  heard  the  battle-cry, 

"  Olea  for  Castile  !  " 

And  there,  against  all  Aragon, 
Full-armed  with  lance  and  brand, 

Olea  fought  until  the  sword 
Snapped  in  his  sturdy  hand. 

Among  the  foe,  with  that  high  scorn 
Which  laughs  at  earthly  fears, 

He  hurled  the  broken  hilt,  and  drew 
His  dagger  on  the  spears. 

They  hewed  the  hauberk  from  his  breast, 

The  helmet  from  his  head, 
They  hewed  the  hands  from  off  his  limbs,  — 

From  every  vein  he  bled. 

Clasping  the  standard  to  his  heart, 

He  raised  one  dying  peal, 
That  rang  as  if  a  trumpet  blew  — 

"  Olea  for  Castile  !  " 


THE  DEATH  OF  DONA  URRACA. 

DON  PEDRO  rode  from  Najera 

With  fury  in  his  brain  ; 
He  hanged,  hacked,  burned,  and  boiled, —  blood  filled 

The  footprints  of  his  train. 

Prince  Edward's  sword  had  given  the  land 

Into  the  tyrant's  power, 
And  Dona  Urraca  with  the  rest 

Must  bide  the  dismal  hour. 

Because  her  son,  Alfonso,  fled 

Before  the  royal  court, 
That  lady  fair,  of  high  degree, 

Must  make  the  rabble  sport. 

Thus,  in  the  strong  Alcazar  shut, 

She  made  her  piteous  moan, 
While  her  maidens  gathered  round,  to  hear, 
,  With  many  a  hopeless  groan. 

"  Make  me  a  robe,  my  gentle  maids, 

And  make  it  light  and  thin, 
That  the  fire  may  lap  around  my  heart, 

And  quickly  creep  within. 


342  THE    DEATH    OF    DOS?A    URRACA. 

"  So  that  the  bitter  death  I  bear, 

If  cruel,  may  yet  be  brief; 
For  Don  Pedro  dooms  me  to  the  stake, 

And  heaven  sends  no  relief. 

"  The  king  has  sworn  to  see  me  burn, 

For  young  Alfonso's  sake  : 
If  my  son  could  hear  the  heavy  news, 

I  ween,  his  heart  would  ache. 

"  Ah  !  if  he  knew  these  tender  arms, 
That  nursed  his  helpless  head, 

Must  burn  to  ashes  on  the  breast 
Whereat  his  childhood  fed ; 

"  And  the  breath  that  fanned  his  baby  brow, 

And  sang  his  lullaby, 
Must  feed  the  fire  of  Pedro's  wrath, 

And  shriek  with  agony  ;  — 

"I  fear  Alfonso's  lips  would  curse 

His  birth-hour :  but,  I  vow, 
I,  who  would  then  have  died  for  him, 

Am  proud  to  do  it  now. 

"  So  make  me  a  robe  of  Moorish  stuff, 

And  let  the  fire  have  sway  ; 
For  my  soul  is  sick  whene'er  I  think 

Of  lingering  on  the  way." 

* 

"  Mistress,"  said  Leonor  Davalos, 

Whilst  the  others  only  wept, 
"  I  '11  make  thy  robe  from  cloth  of  wool 

Which  I  so  long  have  kept ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  DONA  URRACA.          343 

"  I  '11  make  thy  robe  from  Flemish  cloth, 

Lest,  when  the  fire  arise, 
Thy  garments  burn  from  off  thy  limbs, 

And  shame  thee  in  all  eyes." 

"  Be  still !  "  the  lady  sternly  cried, 

"  And  do  thy  ordered  part ; 
Thou  art  too  coolly  provident 

To  have  me  much  at  heart." 

Then  Leonor  in  silence  bent, 

And  wrought  with  little  cheer ; 
For  down  her  cheeks  the  big  drops  ran, 

With  every  stitch  a  tear. 

Nathless,  the  robe  was  neatly  made, 

Each  seam  in  proper  place  ; 
She  bound  her  lady's  girdle  on, 

And  looked  into  her  face. 

The  lady  bade  her  maids  farewell, 

She  kissed  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
But  not  a  look  of  love  she  cast 

On  hapless  Leonor. 

The  lady  knelt  beside  the  priest, 

The  holy  bread  was  given, 
She  made  her  peace  with  all  the  world, 

And  turned  her  thoughts  on  heaven. 

The  hour  is  come.     The  royal  guard, 

With  trampling  harsh  and  loud, 
Have  led  the  lady  swiftly  forth 

To  face  the  hooting  crowd. 


344  THE   DEATH   OF    D05?A    URRACA. 

They  bound  her  to  the  fatal  stake 

With  iron  chains  ;  and  now 
The  headsman  blows  his  torch  aflame 

Beneath  his  scowling  brow. 

High  into  heaven,  as  if  to  bear 

Witness  against  her  doom, 
The  pitchy  fagots  flashed,  then  all 

Was  silent  as  the  tomb. 

Pale  with  affright,  the  lady  hung 

Upon  her  chains  and  wept, 
Until  a  gust  of  brawling  wind 

Across  the  ramparts  swept ; 

And  drove  the  flames  aslant,  and  caught 

The  lady's  fluttering  gown, 
Stripping  her  person  to  the  view 

Of  every  leering  clown. 

Loud  roared  the  crowd,  and  laughed,  and  jeered, 

To  see  the  lady's  plight, 
Pointing  their  fingers,  nudging  those 

Who  could  not  bear  the  sight. 

"  0  Mary,  mother  of  our  Lord, 

I  call  upon  thy  name  ! 
Thou  who  dost  know  what  I  endure, 

0  hide  me  from  my  shame  ! 

"  0  holy  Virgin,  take  my  soul ! 

The  inward  fire  I  feel 
Is  crueller  than  the  fire  around  :  — • 

1  'm  bound,  or  I  would  kneel !  " 


THE   DEATH    OF    DOfsA    URRACA.  345 

Sad  Leonor,  from  where  she  stood, 

Heard  how  her  lady  cried  ; 
She  sprang  towards  the  blazing  pile, 

And  dashed  the  guard  aside. 

Right  through  the  smoke  and  sparkling  coals 

She  leaped  into  the  flame, 
And  spread  her  flowing  garments  out, 

And  hid  her  lady's  shame. 

She  clasped  her  body  with  her  arms, 

And  straight  into  the  sky,  — 
High  up,  as  towards  some  distant  spot,  — 

The  two  gazed  steadfastly ; 

Gazed  with  their  wondering  lips  apart, 

Cheek  pressed  to  pallid  cheek, 
Heart  stilled  on  heart  —  no  sign  they  make, 

No  stir,  no  word  they  speak ; 

Gazed  till  their  souls  were  following 

The  vision  far  away, 
And  the  savage  fagots  blazed  around 

A  mass  of  senseless  clay. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  MARIA  CORONEL. 

"  0,  SISTERS  of  Santa  Clara, 

If  you'd  keep  my  soul  from  sin, 
Dig  me  a  grave  in  the  convent  ground, 

And  bury  me  within. 

"  Pile  the  turf  loosely  o'er  my  head, 

And  closely  let  me  lie, 
Till  the  king  hath  searched  the  cloisters  through, 

And,  haply,  passed  me  by. 

"  Rather  would  I  lie  side  by  side 

With  the  foul  and  grisly  dead, 
Than  loll  in  wicked  luxury 

Upon  Don  Pedro's  bed. 

"  0,  sisters,  hasten !     Hark  !  the  king 

Is  thundering  at  the  grate  ; 
Fierce  oaths  are  thick  upon  his  lips  — 

How  creaks  the  bending  gate  ! 

"  God  gave  us  not  this  precious  time 

To  waste  in  frightened  prayer ; 
We  serve  him  better  with  our  deeds, 

If  they  be  bold  and  fair. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  MARIA  CORONEL.        347 

"  He  sits  in  heaven,  and  smiles  serene 

Above  each  falling  bead ; 
Prayers  he  but  hears,  he  lends  his  arm 

To  help  a  noble  deed." 

"Lady,  the  king  will  search  the  ground, 
And  mark  the  new-turned  sod."  — 

"  Ye  talk  as  women  talk  :  I  trust 
My  chastity  to  God  1  " 

Scarce  could  the  sexton  dig  the  grave, 

And  shoulder  up  his  spade, 
With  clods  of  grass,  and  damp  black  earth, 

Still  clinging  to  the  blade  ; 

Scarce  could  the  lady  fall  along, 

And  hide  herself  within, 
Ere  the  cloister  walls,  from  end  to  end, 

Were  full  of  martial  din. 

Even  while  the  breathless  nuns  heaped  turf 

Above  the  seeming  grave, 
Don  Pedro's  jewelled  plumes  were  seen 

Across  the  court  to  wave. 

Straight  towards  the  prioress  and  nuns 

The  furious  monarch  came  ; 
Wrath  smouldering  in  his  deadly  eyes, 

His  cheeks  with  wrath  aflame. 

0,  wonder !  miracle  of  grace ! 

With  every  step  he  took 
A  flower  rose  lightly  from  the  grave, 

And  in  the  breezes  shook. 


348        THE  LEGEND  OF  MARIA  CORONEL. 

Lily,  and  violet,  and  rose, 

Shot  up,  budded,  and  bore, 
Shedding  such  odors  in  the  sun 

As  flowers  ne'er  shed  before. 

The  alder  sank  its  hollow  tubes 

Far  down  into  the  tomb, 
Till  all  the  damp  air  underneath 

Was  banished  with  perfume. 

Betwixt  the  white  roots  of  the  flowers 

The  tender  grass  peeped  out, 
While  through  its  spears  long  creepers  trailed, 

And  coiled  their  stems  about. 

So,  when  the  angry  monarch's  step 

Had  staid  its  headlong  speed, 
A  multitude  of  roses  blushed 

Between  him  and  his  deed. 

Naught  saw  he  nigh  him  to  betray 

The  lady's  hiding-place,  — 
Naught  but  a  little  mound  that  seemed 

Flowered  o'er  by  years  of  grace. 

No  whisper  from  the  frightened  nuns, 

No  breath,  Don  Pedro  greets, 
Save  the  soft  breath  of  tranquil  flowers  — 

An  eloquence  of  sweets. 

I  know  not  if  fair  sights  and  scents 

May  soothe  a  fiery  soul, 
And  with  some  subtle,  mystic  power 

Its  raging  heats  control ; 


THE  LEGEND  OF  MARIA  CORONEL. 

But,  certcs,  from  that  spot  the  king 

Turned  with  a  calmer  air, 
Muttering  low  phrases  to  himself, 

That  sounded  like  a  prayer. 

All  still,  as  in  a  holy  trance, 

The  blessed  lady  lay, 
Nor  knew  how  heaven  had  wrought  until 

The  king  was  far  away. 

Nor  ye  who  read,  nor  I  who  write, 
Know  not  how  o'er  our  heads, 

When  peril  frowns,  God's  tender  hand 
Such  fragrant  bounties  spreads. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS 


SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 


THE  EOSE  OF  GRANADA. 

0,  THE  Rose  of  Granada  was  blooming  full-blown, 
And  she  laughed  at  the  suitors  who  thought  her  their 

own, 

Till  there  came  from  Morocco  the  Moor,  Ala  Jaeer, 
And  he  tossed  from  his  spear-head  the  horse-tails  in 
air, 

Saying,  "List  to  me,  lady; 

For  hither  I  've  flown, 
0  Rose  of  Granada, 
To  make  thee  my  own." 

He  sang  from  his  saddle  of  war  and  of  love, 
With  a  voice  that  was  soft  as  the  houries'  above  ; 
And  he  sang  to  his  gittern  of  love  and  of  war, 
With  one  foot  in  his  stirrup  and  one  in  her  door : 
Singing,  "  Look  from  thy  lattice  ; 

I  never  will  rove, 
0  Rose  of  Granada, 

For  war  yields  to  love." 

She  smiled  in  his  face  as  she  ne'er  smiled  before, 
And  the  suitors  went  trooping  away  from  her  door ; 
VOL.  n.  23 


354  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 

But  they  saw  from  a  spear  driven  deep  in  the  plain, 
Where  a  barb  had  been  tied  by  his  gold-bitted  rein, 
That  the  horse-tails  were  waving, 

Now  hither,  now  there  ; 
For  the  Rose  of  Granada 
Had  fallen  in  the  snare. 

The  suitors  went  muttering,  by  day  and  by  night, 
"  Our  Rose  will  be  stolen  away  in  our  sight," 
Till  the  Moor,  Ala  Jaeer,  from  her  portal  one  morn 
Stepped,  shaking  the  horse-tails  in  triumph  and  scorn  : 
»  "0,  in,  to  your  lady, 

And  tend  her,  I  pray, 
For  the  Rose  of  Granada 
Is  fading  away. 

"  She  is  one  of  a  hundred  —  to  tell  you 's  but  fair ; 
Who  '11  tilt  for  the  lady  I  've  left  in  despair  ? " 
With  a  scowl  on  his  brow,  and  a  sneer  on  his  mouth, 
The  horse-tails  went  dancing  away  to  wards  the  south. 
But  the  suitors  were  whispering, 

Ere  daylight  was  gray, 
"  0,  the  rose  of  Granada 
Has  faded  away  1 " 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


THERE  was  a  gay  maiden  lived  down  by  the  mill  — 

Ferry  me  over  the  ferry  — 
Her  hair  was  as  bright  as  the  waves  of  a  rill, 
When  the  sun  on  the  brink  of  his  setting  stands  still, 

Her  lips  were  as  full  as  a  cherry. 

A  stranger  came  galloping  over  the  hill  — 

Ferry  me  over  the  ferry  — 
He  gave  her  broad  silver  and  gold  for  his  will : 
She  glanced  at  the  stranger,  she  glanced  o'er  the  sill ; 

The  maiden  was  gentle  and  merry. 

"  0 !  what  would  you  give  for  your  virtue  again?  " — 

Ferry  me  over  the  ferry  — 
"  0  1  silver  and  gold  on  your  lordship  I'd  rain, 
I  'd  double  your  pleasure,  I  'd  double  my  pain, 

This  moment  forever  to  bury." 


356  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


LIDA. 

LID  A,  lady  of  the  land, 

Called  by  men  "  the  blue-eyed  wonder," 
Hath  a  lily  forehead,  fanned 

By  locks  the  sunlight  glitters  under. 
She  hath  all  that  ;s  scattered  round 

Through  a  race  of  winning  creatures  ; 
All,  except  the  beauty  found, 

By  Johnny  Gordon,  in  my  features. 

Lida,  lady  of  the  land, 

Hath  full  many  goodly  houses, 
'Fields,  and  parks,  on  every  hand, 

Where  your  foot  the  roebuck  rouses. 
She  hath  orchards,  garden-plots, 

Valleys  deep,  and  mountains  swelling ; 
All,  except  yon  nest  of  cots, 

Johnny  Gordon's  humble  dwelling. 

Lida,  lady  of  the  land, 

Hath  treasures  more  than  she  remembers, 
Heaps  of  dusty  gems,  that  stand 

Like  living  coals  amid  the  embers. 
She  hath  gold  whose  touch  would  bring 

A  lordship  to  a  lowly  peasant ; 
All,  except  this  little  ring, 

Johnny  Gordon's  humble  present. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  357 

Lida,  lady  of  the  land, 

Hath  a  crowd  of  gallant  suitors  ; 
Squires,  who  fly  at  her  command, 

Knights,  her  slightest  motion  tutors. 
She  hath  barons  kneeling  mute, 

To  hear  the  fortune  of  their  proffers  ; 
All,  except  the  honest  suit 

Johnny  Gordon  humbly  offers. 

Lida,  lady  of  the  land, 

Keep  your  wondrous  charms  untroubled ; 
May  your  wide  domain  expand, 

May  your  gems  and  gold  be  doubled  ! 
Keep  your  lords  on  bended  knee  ; 

Take  all  earth,  and  leave  us  lonely !  — 
All,  except  you  take  from  me 

Humble  Johnny  Gordon  only. 


358  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


YES,  I  loved  her  I     Bear  me  witness, 

Heaven,  and  sea,  and  mother  earth, 
How  I  felt  my  own  unfitness, 

Matched  with  her  transcendent  worth ! 
How  I  bent  my  forehead  meekly, 
Saying,  "  I  am  heart-sick,  weakly, 
Jaded,  worn  with  many  trials,  — 
Cursed,  unto  the  last  extreme, 
With  the  seven  deadly  vials  ! "  — 
In  a  dream. 

But,  behold,  the  gentle  maiden 

Touched  me  lightly  with  her  hand  ; 
Saying,  "  Rise,  thou  sorrow-laden 
Man  of  many  griefs,  and  stand  ! 
For  I  love  thee  with  my  youthful 
Spirit  warm,  and  pure,  and  truthful : 
Upward,  to  me,  I  beseech  thee  ! 

Or,  forgetting  self-esteem, 
I  will  downward  plunge  to  reach  thee !  "  • 
In  a  dream. 

It  has  faded  from  my  vision  ; 

And  again  I  stand  alone, 
Thrust  beyond  the  gates  elysian, 

Listening  to  my  exiled  moan. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  3591 

Hearing  her  sweet  accents  never  — 
Love,  joy,  hope,  all  gone  together  ; 
But  the  pang  will  ne'er  be  banished 

Of  that  bright  delusive  gleam, 
Which  has  left  its  sting,  and  vanished 
In  a  dream. 


360  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHEN  we  meet  again,  shall  I  behold  no  shrinking 
Of  thy  quick  eyes,  no  sidelong  glance  of  pain  ; 
No  start,  betraying  what  thy  heart  is  thinking, 
When  we  meet  again  ? 

When  we  meet  again,  shall  I  perceive  no  trial 

To  wake  a  love  already  on  the  wane, 
To  screen  inconstancy  by  faint  denial, 
When  we  meet  again  ? 

When  we  meet  again,  shall  I  hear  no  bewailing, 

No  hollow  fiction  of  a  treacherous  brain, 
Raised  to  forestall  my  own  true  griefs  assailing, 
When  we  meet  again  ? 

When  we  meet  again,  shall  I  not  know  thee  playing 

A  part  whose  falsehood  is  too  clearly  plain, 
That  cogs  and  kisses  while  it  is  betraying, 
When  we  meet  again  ? 

When  we  meet  again,  0  God !  shall  I  not  find  thee 

As  true  to  me  as  when  thy  lips  were  ta'en, 
In  the  deep  calm  of  love,  from  lips  that  then  resigned 
thee 

But  to  meet  again  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  361 


THE  fever  in  my  blood  has  died  ; 

The  eager  foot,  the  glancing  eye, 

By  beauty  lured  so  easily, 
No  more  are  moved,  or  turned  aside  : 
My  smiles  are  gone,  my  tears  are  dried. 

And  if  I  say  I  love  thee  now, 

'T  is  not  because  my  passions  burn  — 
Fair  as  thou  art  —  to  ask  return 

Of  love  for  love,  arid  vow  for  vow  ; 

Too  dear  exchanged  for  such  as  thou. 

I  love  thee  only  as  he  can 

Who  knows  his  heart.     I  yield,  in  truth, 
Not  the  blind,  headlong  heat  of  youth, 

That  pants  ere  it  has  run  a  span, 

But  the  determined  love  of  man. 

And  if  from  me  you  ask  more  fire 

Than  lights  my  slowly-fading  days, — 
The  sudden  frenzy  and  the  blaze, 
The  selfish  clutch  of  young  desire,— - 
You  point  where  I  cannot  aspire. 

Yet  do  not  bend  thy  head  to  weep, 
Because  my  love  so  coldly  shows  ; 
For  where  the  fuel  fiercely  glows 

The  flame  is  brief:  in  ashes  deep 

The  everlasting  embers  sleep. 


362  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


I  SIT  beneath  the  sunbeams'  glow, 
Their  golden  currents  round  me  flow, 
Their  mellow  kisses  warm  my  brow, 

But  all  the  world  is  dreary. 
The  vernal  meadow  round  me  blooms, 
And  flings  to  me  its  faint  perfumes  ; 
Its  breath  is  like  an  opening  tomb's  — 

I  'm  sick  of  life,  I  'm  weary  ! 

The  mountain  brook  skips  down  to  me, 
Tossing  its  silver  tresses  free, 
Humming  like  one  in  revery  ; 

But,  ah  !  the  sound  is  dreary. 
The  trilling  blue-birds  o'er  me  sail, 
There 's  music  in  the  faint-voiced  gale  ; 
All  sound  to  me  a  mourner's  wail  — 

I  'm  sick  of  life,  I  'm  weary. 

The  night  leads  forth  her  starry  train, 
The  glittering  moonbeams  fall  like  rain, 
There  's  not  a  shadow  on  the  plain ; 

Yet  all  the  scene  is  dreary. 
The  sunshine  is  a  mockery, 
The  solemn  moon  stares  moodily  ; 
Alike  is  day  or  night  to  me  — 

I  'm  sick  of  life,  I  'm  weary. 

I  know  to  some  the  world  is  fair, 
For  them  there 's  music  in  the  air, 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  363 

And  shapes  of  beauty  everywhere  ; 

But  all  to  me  is  dreary. 
I  know  in  me  the  sorrows  lie 
That  blunt  my  ear  and  dim  my  eye ; 
I  cannot  weep,  I  fain  would  die  — 

I  'm  sick  of  life,  I  'm  weary. 


364  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHEEL  on  thy  axle,  softly  run, 
Dark  earth,  into  the  golden  day  ! 

Rise  from  the  burnished  east,  bright  sun, 
And  chase  the  scowling  night  away  ! 

Touch  my  love's  eyelids  ;  gently  break 
The  tender  dream  she  dreams  of  me, 

With  flowery  odors  ;  round  her  shake 
The  swallow's  morning  minstrelsy. 

Tell  her  how,  through  the  lonely  dark, 
Her  lover  sighed  with  sleepless  pain  ; 

And  heard  the  watch-dog's  hollow  bark, 
And  heard  the  sobbing  of  the  rain. 

Tell  her  he  waits,  with  listening  ear, 
Beside  the  way  that  skirts  her  door ; 

And  till  her  radiant  face  appear, 
He  shall  not  think  the  night  is  o'er. 


STREET  LYRICS. 


I. 

THE    GROCER'S    DAUGHTER. 

STOP,  stop  !  and  look  through  the  dusty  pane.  — 
She 's  gone  !  — Nay,  hist !  again  I  have  caught  her : 

There  is  the  source  of  my  sighs  of  pain, 
There  is  my  idol,  the  Grocer's  Daughter  ! 

v  A.  child  !  no  woman  !  "     A  bud,  no  flower : 
But  think,  when  a  year  or  more  has  brought  her 

Its  ripening  roundness,  how  proud  a  dower 

Of  charms  will  bloom  in  the  Grocer's  Daughter ! 

I  have  a  love  for  the  flower  that  blows, 
One  for  the  bud  that  needs  sun  and  water  ; 

The  first  because  it  is  now  a  rose, 

The  other  will  be,  —  like  the  Grocer's  Daughter. 

She  stood  in  the  door,  as  I  passed  to-day, 

And  mine  and  a  thousand  glances  sought  her  ; 

Like  a  star  from  heaven  with  equal  ray, 
On  all  alike,  shone  the  Grocer's  Daughter. 


366  SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 

Mark  how  the  sweetest  on  earth  can  smile, 

As  yon  patient  drudge,  yon  coarse-browed  porter, 

Eases  his  burdened  back,  the  while 

Keeping  his  eyes  on  the  Grocer's  Daughter. 

Now,  look  ye  !  I  who  have  much  to  lose  — 

Rank,   wealth,   and  friends  —  like    the    load  he 
brought  her, 

Would  toss  them  under  her  little  shoes, 
To  win  that  smile  from  the  Grocer's  Daughter. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  367 


II. 

A    MYSTERY. 

JUST  as  the  twilight  shades  turn  darker, 

There  is  a  maiden  passes  me  ; 
Many  and  many  a  time  I  mark  her, 

Wondering  who  that  maid  can  be. 

Sometimes  she  bears  her  music,  fastened 
Scroll-like  around  with  silken  twine  ; 

And  once  —  although  she  blushed  and  hastened, 
I  knew  it  —  she  bore  a  book  of  mine. 

In  cold  or  heat,  I  never  passed  her, 
Beneath  serene  or  threatening  skies, 

That  she  upon  me  did  not  cast  her 
Strong,  full,  and  steady  hazel  eyes. 

Eyes  of  such  wondrous  inner  meaning, 
So  filled  with  light,  so  deep,  so  true, 

As  if  her  thoughts  disclaimed  all  screening, 
And  clustered  in  them,  looking  through. 

Thus,  day  by  day,  we  meet ;  no  greeting, 
No  sign  she  makes,  no  word  she  says  ; 

Unless  our  eyes  salute  at  meeting, 
And  she  says  somewhat  by  her  gaze. 


368  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 

Says  what  ?     At  first  her  looks  were  often 
As  cheering  as  the  sun  above  ; 

Next  they  began  to  dim  and  soften, 
Like  glances  from  a  brooding  dove. 

Then  wonder,  then  reproach,  concealing 

A  coming  anger,  I  could  see : 
I  passed,  but  felt  her  eyes  were  stealing 

Around,  and  following  after  me. 

Before  me  once,  with  firm  possession, 
She  almost  paused,  and  hung  upon 

The  very  verge  of  some  confession  ; 
But  maiden  coyness  led  her  on. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  maid  indulges 

An  idle  fancy  by  the  way ; 
Sometimes  I  think  her  look  divulges 

A  deeper  sign  —  a  mind  astray. 

This  eve  she  met  me,  wild  with  laughter, 
More  sad  than  weeping  would  have  been  • 

A  pang  before,  a  sorrow  after  ; 

Tell  me,  what  can  the  maiden  mean  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  369 


III. 

THE  TWO  BIRDS. 

Two  birds  hang  from  two  facing  windows  : 

One  on  a  lady's  marble  wall ; 
The  other,  a  seamstress'  sole  companion, 

Bests  on  her  lattice  dark  and  small. 

The  one,  embowered  by  rare  exotics, 

Swings  in  a  curious  golden  cage  ; 
The  other,  beside  a  lone  geranium, 
,        Peeps  between  wires  of  rusty  age. 

The  one  consumes  a  dainty  seedling, 

That,  leagues  on  leagues,  in  vessels  comes  ; 

The  other  pecks  at  the  scanty  leavings 

Strained  from  his  mistress'  painful  crumbs. 

The  lady's  bird  has  careful  lackeys, 
To  place  him  in  the  cheerful  sun  ; 

Upon  her  bird  the  seamstress  glances, 
Between  each  stitch,  till  work  is  done. 

Doubtless  the  marble  wall  shines  gayly, 
And  sometimes  to  the  window  roam 

Guests  in  their  stately  silken  garments  ; 

But  yon  small  blind  looks  more  like  home. 
VOL.  n.  24 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 

Doubtless  the  tropic  flowers  are  dazzling, 
The  golden  cage  is  rare  to  see  ; 

But  sweeter  smells  the  low  geranium, 
The  mean  cage  has  more  liberty. 

'T  is  well  to  feed  upon  the  fruitage 

Brought  from  a  distant  southern  grove  ; 

But  better  is  a  homely  offering, 
Divided  by  the  hand  of  love. 

The  purchased  service  of  a  menial 
May,  to  the  letter,  fill  its  part ; 

But  there  's  an  overflowing  kindness 
Springs  from  the  service  of  a  heart. 

Hark  !  yonder  bird  begins  to  warble  : 
Well  done,  my  lady's  pretty  pet ! 

Thy  song  is  somewhat  faint  and  straitened, 
Yet  sweeter  tones  I  've  seldom  met. 

And  now  the  seamstress'  bird.  —  0,  listen  ! 

Hear  with  what  power  his  daring  song 
Sweeps  through  its  musical  divisions, 

With  skill  assured,  with  rapture  strong  ! 

Hear  how  he  trills  ;  with  what  abundance 
He  flings  his  varied  stores  away  ; 

Bursting  through  wood  and  woven  iron 
With  the  wild  freedom  of  his  lay  ! 

Cease,  little  prisoner  to  the  lady, 
Cease,  till  the  rising  of  the  moon  ; 

Thy  feeble  song  is  all  unsuited 
To  the  full  midday  glare  of  June. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  371 

Cease,  for  thy  rival's  throat  is  throbbing 
With  the  fierce  splendor  of  the  hour  ; 

His  is  the  art  that  grasps  a  passion, 
To  cast  it  back  with  ten-fold  power. 

Cease,  until  yonder  feathered  poet 

Through  all  his  wondrous  song  has  run, 

And  made  the  heart  of  wide  creation 
Leap  in  the  glory  of  the  sun. 


372  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


IV. 

FLOWERS    AT    THE    WINDOW. 

FLOWERS  at  the  window  !  tropic  blossoms  blazing1  in 
our  wintry  air, 

On  the  dark,  cold  evening  looking  with  a  fervid 
summer  glare : 

Just  a  bit  of  southern  landscape  prisoned  in  a  north 
ern  pane, 

Just  a  hint  of  how  the  cactus  bristles  o'er  its  native 
plain ; 

How  the  fuchsia  hangs  its  scarlet  buds  amid  the 
orange  bowers, 

And  the  dust  of  all  the  valleys  rises  up  at  once  in 
flowers. 

Yonder  room  is  sick  with  odors,  painful  odors,  too 

intense 
For  the  scentless  air  that  nurtured  the  fresh  longings 

of  my  sense. 
I  should  swoon  among  those  flowers,  their  gaudy 

colors  vex  my  eye, 
And  their  hot  oppressive  breath  upon  my  whirling 

brain  would  lie 
Like  the  poisoned  fumes,  engendered  by  the  eastern 

sorcerer's  fire, 
That  rouse  the  sense  to  madness,  and  the  heart  to 

horrible  desire. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  373 

Stay   a  moment,  —  through  the  flaunting   stranger 

flowers,  I  mark  a  rose  — 
One  pale  native  of  our  forests,  standing  there  in  mild 

repose  ; 
Hanging  down   its   timid  head,   amid  its   haughty 

sisters  meek, 
From  them  shrinking  back,  half-opened,  with  a  blush 

upon  its  cheek. 
Wait  I  for  the  rose  to  blow,  or  wait  I  for  the  maid 

who  stood 
In  among  the  flowers,  this  morning,  blooming  into 

womanhood  ? 


374  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


THE    AWAKING    OF    THE    POETICAL 
FACULTY. 

ALL  day  I  heard  a  humming  in  my  ears, 
A  buzz  of  many  voices,  and  a  throng 
Of  swarming  numbers,  passing  with  a  song 
Measured  and  stately  as  the  rolling  spheres'. 

I  saw  the  sudden  light  of  lifted  spears, 

Slanted  at  once  against  some  monster  wrong  ; 
And  then  a  fluttering  scarf  which  might  belong 
To  some  sweet  maiden  in  her  morn  of  years. 

I  felt  the  chilling  damp  of  sunless  glades, 

Horrid  with  gloom ;  anon,  the  breath  of  May 
Was  blown  around  me,  and  the  lulling  play 

Of  dripping  fountains.     Yet  the  lights  and  shades, 
The  waving  scarfs,  the  battle's  grand  parades, 
Seemed  but  vague  shadows  of  that  wondrous  lay. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  375 


TO   ANDKEW  JACKSON. 

OLD  lion  of  the  Hermitage,  again 

The  times  invoke  thee,  but  thou  art  not  here  ; 
Cannot  our  peril  call  thee  from  thy  bier  ? 
France  vapors,  and  the  puny  arm  of  Spain 

Is  up  to  strike  us  ;  England  gives  them  cheer, 
False  to  the  child  that  in  her  hour  of  fear 
Must  be  her  bulwark  and  her  succor,  fain 
To  prop  the  strength  which  even  now  doth  wane. 

Nor  these  alone  ;  intestine  broils  delight 
The  gaping  monarchs,  and  our  liberal  shore 
Is  rife  with  traitors.     Now,  while  both  unite  — 

Europe  and  treason  —  I  would  see  once  more 
Thy  dreadful  courage  lash  itself  to  might, 
Behold  thee  shake  thy  mane,  and  hear  thy  roar. 
1852. 


376  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


TO  LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 

0,  SHAMELESS  thief !  a  nation  trusted  thee 

With  all  the  wealth  her  bleeding  hands  had  won, 
Proclaimed  thee  guardian  of  her  liberty  : 
So  proud  a  title  never  lay  upon 

Thy  uncle's  forehead  :  thou  wast  linked  with  one, 
First  President  of  France,  whose  name  shall  be 
Fixed  in  the  heavens,  like  God's  eternal  sun  — 
Second  to  him  alone  —  to  Washington ! 

Was  it  for  thee  to  stoop  unto  a  crown  ? 

Pick  up  the  Bourbon's  leavings  ?   yield  thy  height 
Of  simple  majesty,  and  totter  down 

Full  of  discovered  frailties  —  sorry  sight !  — 
One  of  a  mob  of  kings  ?  or,  baser  grown, 
Was  it  for  thee  to  steal  it  in  the  night  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  377 


TO  ENGLAND. 


I. 

LEAR  and  Cordelia  !  't  was  an  ancient  tale 

Before  thy  Shakspeare  gave  it  deathless  fame  : 
The  times  have  changed,  the  moral  is  the  same. 
So  like  an  outcast,  dowerless,  and  pale, 

Thy  daughter  went ;  and  in  a  foreign  gale 

Spread  her  young  banner,  till  its  sway  became 
A  wonder  to  the  nations.     Days  of  shame 
Are  close  upon  thee  :  prophets  raise  their  wail. 

When  the  rude  Cossack  with  an  outstretched  hand 
Points  his  long  spear  across  the  narrow  sea,  — 
"  Lo  !  there  is  England  !  "  when  thy  destiny 

Storms  on  thy  straw-crowned  head,  and  thou  dost 

stand 

Weak,  helpless,  mad,  a  by-word  in  the  land,  — 
God  grant  thy  daughter  a  Cordelia  be  ! 
1852. 


318  SOXGS    AND    SONNETS. 


II. 

STAND,  thou  great  bulwark  of  man's  liberty  ! 
Thou  rock  of  shelter,  rising  from  the  wave, 
Sole  refuge  to  the  overwearied  brave 
Who  planned,  arose,  and  battled  to  be  free, 

Fell  undeterred,  then  sadly  turned  to  thee  ;  — 
Saved  the  free  spirit  from  their  country's  grave, 
To  rise  again,  and  animate  the  slave, 
When  God  shall  ripen  all  things.     Britons,  ye 

Who  guard  the  sacred  outpost,  not  in  vain 
Hold  your  proud  peril !     Freemen  undefiled, 
Keep  watch  and  ward  !     Let  battlements  be  piled 

Around  your  cliffs  ;  fleets  marshalled,  till  the  main 
Sink  under  them  ;  and  if  your  courage  wane, 
Through  force  or  fraud,  look  westward  to  your 

child  ! 
1853. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  379 


III. 

IT  length  the  tempest  from  the  North  has  burst, 
The  threatened  storm,  by  sages  seen  of  old  ; 
And  into  jarring  anarchy  is  rolled 
Harmonious  peace,  so  long  and  fondly  nursed 

By  watchful  nations.     Tyranny  accursed 
Has  broken  bounds  —  the  wolf  makes  towards  the 

fold. 

Up !  ere  your  priceless  liberties  be  sold 
Into  degrading  slavery  !     The  worst 

That  can  befall  you  is  the  brunt  of  war, 

Dealt  on  a  shield  that  oft  has  felt  the  weight 
Of  foeman's  blows.  —  Up  !  ere  it  be  too  late  ! 

For  God  has  squandered  all  his  precious  store 
Of  right  and  mercy,  if  the  time  's  so  sore 
That  slaves  can  bring  you  to  their  own  base  state. 
1854. 


380  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


IV. 

FAR  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Euxine's  strand, 
Peals  the  vast  clamor  of  commencing  war  ; 
And  we,  0  England,  on  another  shore, 
Like  brothers  bound,  with  wistful  faces  stand  — 

With  shouts  of  cheer,  with  wavings  of  the  hand  — 
With  eager  throbbings  of  the  heart,  to  pour 
Our  warlike  files  amid  the  battle's  war, 
And  nerve  the  terrors  of  thy  lifted  brand. 

Old  wrongs  have  vanished  in  thy  evil  hours  ; 
The  blood  that  fell  between  us,  in  the  fight, 
Has  dried  away  before  a  heavenly  light. 

We  ;11  strew  thy  paths  of  victory  with  flowers, 
Weep  o'er  thy  woes,  and  cry,  with  all  our  powers, 
Thy  cause  is  God's,  because  thy  cause  is  right ! 
1854. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  381 


V. 

0,  MEN  of  England,  with  an  anxious  heart 
We  see  you  arming  for  the  coming  fight. 
Pale  lips  that  quiver,  in  our  pride's  despite, 
Bid  you  God  speed  I     Be  this  our  tenderer  part. 

Yours  is  the  frown  of  war,  the  martial  start 
That  wakes  to  glory  and  resistless  might, 
When  your  great  standard  rises  on  the  sight, 
Blazoned  with  memories  ;  an  awful  chart 

Of  grand  adventures  done  in  olden  days,  — 
At  once  a  pride  and  terror.     Ill  bestead 
The  soul  that  shrinks  from  duty  through  its  dread  ; 

Or  seeks  another  outlet  than  the  ways 

Marked  down  for  you,  amid  the  whole  world's 

praise  — 

The  noble  ways  on  which  your  fathers  led. 
1864. 


382  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


VI. 

ONCE  more  old  England's  banner  on  the  gale 
Flames  like  the  comet  in  our  western  sky  ; 
Beneath  its  fiery  glare  are  lifted  high 
Long  lines  of  steel,  and  clouds  of  snowy  sail. 

0,  ye  who  bear  it  through  the  eastern  vale, 
Think  how  it  shone  in  Coeur  de  Lion's  eye  ! 
Ye  who  behold  it  on  the  waters  fly, 
Think  how  it  answered  Nelson's  dauntless  hail ! 

From  the  Crusader  to  the  Sailor  turn, 
And  mark  the  lines  of  glory  that  appear 
Stretched  through  your  chronicles,  starred  far  a 
near 

With  names  heroical  —  dread  names  that  burn, 
Like  deathless  lamps,  above  each  funeral  urn, 
To  light  you  onward  in  their  grand  career. 
1854. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  383 


VII. 

FAINT  not  nor  tremble,  birthplace  of  my  sires, 
Because  the  dreadful  arm  of  war  is  bare, 
And  thy  sons  bleed  with  many  wounds  that  glare 
In  pleading  misery  on  thee.     Household  fires 

Must  quench  ;  there  's  trouble  in  the  land.     Desires 
For  peace,  old  longings,  that  with  loathful  stare 
Take  up  the  sword  with  such  a  backward  air, 
Must  vanish  now.     I  know  thy  soul  aspires 

Towards  all  that 's  manly,  liberal,  and  great : 
Therefore,  when  you  behold  your  children  come, 
Gored  by  the  cursed  Cossack,  wounded  home, 

Shed  not  a  useless  tear ;  but  edge  thy  hate 

With  double  fury  !     Sound  the  mustering  drum, 
And  fill  your  ranks  up  to  their  wonted  state  ! 
1854. 


384  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


TO    AMERICA. 


I. 

WHAT,  cringe  to  Europe !     Band  it  all  in  one, 
Stilt  its  decrepit  strength,  renew  its  age, 
Wipe  out  its  debts,  contract  a  loan  to  wage 
Its  venal  battles  —  and,  by  yon  bright  sun, 

Our  God  is  false,  and  liberty  undone, 

If  slaves  have  power  to  win  your  heritage  ! 
Look  on  your  country,  God's  appointed  stage, 
Where  man's  vast  mind  its  boundless  course  shall 
run  : 

For  that  it  was  your  stormy  coast  He  spread  — 
A  fear  in  winter  ;  girded  you  about 
With  granite  hills,  and  made  you  strong  and  dread. 

Let  him  who  fears  before  the  foemen  shout, 
Or  gives  an  inch  before  a  vein  has  bled, 
Turn  on  himself,  and  let  the  traitor  out ! 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  385 


II. 

WHAT  though  the  cities  blaze,  the  ports  be  sealed, 
The  fields  un tilled,  the  hands  of  labor  still, 
Ay,  every  arm  of  commerce  and  of  skill 
Palsied  and  broken  ;  shall  we  therefore  yield  — 

Break  up  the  sword,  put  by  the  dintless  shield  ? 
Have  we  no  home  upon  the  wooded  hill, 
That  mocks  a  siege  ?     No  patriot  ranks  to  drill  ? 
No  nobler  labor  in  the  battle-field  ? 

Or  grant  us  beaten.     While  we  gather  might, 
Is  there  no  comfort  in  the  solemn  wood  ? 
No  cataracts  whose  angry  roar  shall  smite 

Our  hearts  with  courage  ?     No  eternal  brood 
Of  thoughts  begotten  by  the  eagle's  flight? 
No  God  to  strengthen  us  in  solitude  ? 
VOL.  n.  25 


386  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  SERGEANT. 

THE  world  may  wait  a  century  to  see 

Thy  equal  mourned.     When   great  men  die,  we 
say — 

"  Just  here  they  missed,  or  there  they  went  astray : 

Alas  !  alas  !  that  sweet  morality 
Locks  not  her  hand  with  greatness  !  "     But  in  thee 

Heaven  lit  a  lamp,  to  show  how,  day  by  day, 

The  highest  flame  may  shed  the  purest  ray, 

Burning  undimmed  into  eternity. 
There  's  much  of  goodness,  much  of  grandeur,  gone 

To  neighboring  slumbers  in  our  ancient  earth  ;  — 

Here  some  bewail  a  hero,  some  bemoan 
A  saintly  pilgrim  ;  yet  I  doubt  if  worth, 

Religion,  greatness,  and  their  active  birth, 

Were  e'er  before  so  mingled  into  one. 

November  27itA,  1852. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  38T 


TO  THE  MEMORY   OF  M.   A.   K. 

WITH  the  mild  light  some  unambitious  star 

Illumes  her  pathway  through  the  heavenly  blue  — • 
So  unobtrusive  that  the  careless  view- 
Scarce  notes  her  where  her  haughtier  sisters  are  — 

So  ran  thy  life.     Perhaps,  from  those  afar, 
Thy  gentle  radiance  little  wonder  drew, 
And  all  their  praise  was  for  the  brighter  few. 
Yet  mortal  vision  is  a  grievous  bar 

To  weigh  true  worth.     For  were  the  distance  riven, 
Our  eyes  might  find  that  star  so  faintly  shone 
Because  it  journeyed  through  a  higher  zone, 

Had  more  majestic  sway  and  duties  given, 
Far  loftier  station  on  the  heights  of  heaven, 
Was  next  to  God,  and  circled  round  His  throne. 


388  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  S.   S. 

THE  world  may  think  I  lay  this  thing  to  heart : 
I  do,  indeed,  and  of  my  grief  am  proud  ;  / 
Yet  would  not  draw  the  wonder  of  the  crowd, 
Either  to  me,  or  to  my  rhyming  art. 

So  I  will  lay  thy  sacred  name  apart 

From  other  griefs  that  haunt  me  in  the  shroud ; 

And  will  not  in  affliction  be  too  loud, 

Lest  men  suspect  my  cunning  gives  the  start 

To  these  true  tears.     And  if  nor  sigh,  nor  moan, 
Nor  cry  of  anguish,  load  my  heavy  line, 
It  is  because  this  holy  grief  of  mine 

Is  a  dear  treasure.     I  am  jealous  grown, 
To  share  with  men  a  thing  I  hold  divine, 
Making  that  common  which  is  all  my  own. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  389 


TO  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


WHAT  changes  of  our  natures  have  not  been, 
In  the  long  process  of  the  many  days 
That  passed  while  we  pursued  our  different  ways, 
Lost  to  each  other !     Fields,  that  once  were  green 

Beneath  our  tillage,  have  been  reaped.     The  scene 
Of  our  young  labors  has  grown  old,  and  lays 
Its  dust  upon  us.     Things  that  won  our  praise, 
Are  tasteless  quite,  and  only  move  our  spleen. 

Experience  has  nipped  the  bloom  of  youth  ; 
The  flattering  dawn  of  life  has  gone  ;  in  vain 
We  look  for  visions  of  the  morn.     Stern  truth 

Glares  over  us,  and  makes  our  view  too  plain. 
I  ;m  sick  of  life's  discoveries  ;  in  sooth, 
I  'd  have  the  falsehoods  of  our  youth  again. 


390  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


n. 

THE  world  seems  strangely  altered  to  me,  friend, 
Since  last  I  pressed  my  ready  hand  in  thine. 
I  feel  like  one  awakening  after  wine  — 
For  many  yesterdays  have  had  an  end 

Since  we  two  met  —  and  drowsy  tremors  send 
A  thrill  of  shame  across  this  heart  of  mine, 
That  I  my  better  feelings  could  confine 
In  easy  opiates,  make  my  spirit  bend 

To  slothful  rest,  —  a  drunkard,  and  no  more  ! 
Yet  I  will  rouse  me  from  this  lethargy. 
The  past  is  past ;  the  dreaming  night  is  o'er  ; 

Heaven's  lamp  comes  beaming  from  the  East  on  me, 
Touching  my  eyelids  to  reality, 
And  all  is  sunshine  that  was  dark  before. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


How  the  fixed  gaze  of  unadmiring  time 

Can  reconcile  us  with  earth's  wondrous  sights ; 
Win  down  our  fancies  from  their  breathless  heights, 
Teaching  't  is  easier  far  to  crawl  than  climb  ! 

Age  spreads  its  marvels  ;  but  a  creeping  rime 
Dulls  the  worn  eye  ;  and  all  the  precious  lights 
Of  early  feeling  deaden  in  the  blights 
Of  care,  and  avarice,  and  infectious  crime. 

0,  God  !  when  use  has  palled  my  youthful  sense  — 
When  no  new  wonder  daily  comes  to  me 
From  hill,  or  vale,  or  stream  —  no  joy  intense 

Breaks  with  the  day,  or  flows  in  with  the  sea, 
Or  opens  with  the  flower  —  0,  take  me  hence, 
Hence,  I  implore,  dear  Lord,  if  not  to  Thee ! 


392  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


DEAR  is  the  fruit  of  sorrow,  priceless  store 
Comes  from  the  hand  of  grief,  as  sages  tell ; 
Seeking  for  comfort  in  the  woes  that  swell 
Our  hearts  to  bursting  ;  with  fore-gathered  lore 

Lulling  the  fears  that  make  a  gloom  before 

Our  onward  tread.     Ah,  hollow  fraud !     As  well 
Speak  truth,  and  say  —  "  We  healed  mishaps  that 

fell 
By  their  own  issue,  as  with  running  gore 

A  wound  is  healed."  —  But,  lo  !  the  lasting  scar ! 
We  make  the  best  of  man's  dark  destiny 
By  self-deceit,  while  hopes  and  pleasures  flee 

Before  our  vision  ;  till  the  latest  star 

Fades  in  the  dawn  of  knowledge,  and  we  see 
Earth,  like  a  joyless  desert,  stretch  afar. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  393 


NOT  when  the  buxom  form  which  nature  wears 
Is  pregnant  with  the  lusty  warmth  of  Spring ; 
Nor  when  hot  Summer,  sunk  with  what  she  bears, 
Lies  panting  in  her  flowery  offering ; 

Nor  yet  when  dusty  Autumn  sadly  fares 

In  tattered  garb,  through  which  the  shrewd  winds 

sing, 

To  bear  her  treasures  to  the  griping  snares 
Hard  Winter  set  for  the  poor  bankrupt  thing ; 

Not  even  when  Winter,  heir  of  all  the  year, 
Deals,  like  a  miser,  round  his  niggard  board 
The  brimming  plenty  of  his  luscious  hoard  ; 

No,  not  in  nature,  change  she  howsoe'er, 
Can  I  find  perfect  type  or  worthy  peer 
Of  the  fair  maid  in  whom  my  heart  is  stored. 


394  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


SPRING,  in  the  gentle  look  with  which  she  turns 
Her  sunny  glance  on  all,  indeed  I  find ; 
And  ardent  Summer  in  the  roses  burns 
Of  her  twin  cheeks,  and  from  her  gracious  mind  -  - 

Like  rare  exotics  nursed  in  precious  urns, 

With  cultured  taste  and  native  grace  combined  — 
Her  teeming  thoughts  arise  :  too  well  she  learns 
This  summer  sweetness  !    Generous  Autumn,  bind 

A  deathless  chaplet  round  her  queenly  brow  ; 
For,  like  thy  own,  in  boundless  charity, 
Her  heart  is  filled  with  motives  frank  and  free, 

Her  hand  with  alms.     Alas  !  I  see  it  now  ; 
From  thee,  cold  Winter,  all  her  fancies  flow, 
Who,  rich  in  all,  will  nothing  give  to  me. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  395 


EITHER  the  sum  of  this  sweet  mutiny 

Amongst  thy  features  argues  me  some  harm ; 
Or  else  they  practise  wicked  treachery 
Against  themselves,  thy  heart,  and  hapless  me. 

For  as  I  start  aside  with  blank  alarm, 
Dreading  the  glitter  which  begins  to  arm 
Thy  clouded  brows,  lo  !  from  thy  lips  I  see 
A  smile  come  stealing,  like  a  loaded  bee, 

Heavy  with  sweets  and  perfumes,  all  ablaze 
With  soft  reflections  from  the  flowery  wall 
Whereon  it  pauses.     Yet  I  will  not  raise 

One  question  more,  let  smile  or  frown  befall, 
Taxing  thy  love  where  I  should  only  praise, 
And  asking  changes,  that  might  change  thee  all. 


396  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


I  'LL  call  thy  frown  a  headsman,  passing  grim, 

Walking  before  some  wretch  foredoomed  to  death, 
Who  counts  the  pantings  of  his  own  hard  breath  ; 
Wondering  how  heart  can  beat,  or  steadfast  limb 

Bear  its  sad  burden  to  life's  awful  brim. 

I  '11  call  thy  smile  a  priest,  who  slowly  saith 
Soft  words  of  comfort,  as  the  sinner  strayeth 
Away  in  thought ;  or  sings  a  holy  hymn, 

Full  of  rich  promise,  as  he  walks  behind 
The  fatal  axe  with  face  of  goodly  cheer, 
And  kind  inclinings  of  his  saintly  ear. 

So,  love,  thou  seest  in  smiles,  or  looks  unkind, 
Some  taste  of  sweet  philosophy  I  find, 
That  seasons  all  things  in  our  little  sphere. 


SOXGS    AND    SONNETS.  39T 


NAY,  not  to  thee,  to  nature  I  will  tie 

The  gathered  blame  of  every  pettish  mood ; 

And  when  thou  frown'st,  I  '11  frown  upon  the  wood, 

Saying,  "  How  wide  its  gloomy  shadows  lie  !  " 

Or,  gazing  straight  into  the  day's  bright  eye, 
Predict  ere  night  a  fatal  second  flood  ; 
Or  vow  the  poet's  sullen  solitude 
Has  changed  my  vision  to  a  darksome  dye. 

But  when  thou  smil'st,  I  will  not  look  above, 
To  wood  or  sky  ;  my  hand  I  will  not  lay 
Upon  the  temple  of  my  sacred  love, 

To  blame  its  living  fires  with  base  decay ; 
But  whisper  to  thee,  as  I  nearer  move, 
"  Love,  thou  dost  add  another  light  to  day." 


398  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


How  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love  impure, 

Being  thyself  the  holy  source  of  all  ? 

Can  ugly  darkness  from  the  fair  sun  fall  ? 

Or  nature's  compact  be  so  insecure, 
That  saucy  weeds  may  sprout  up  and  endure 

Where  gentle  flowers  were  sown?    The  brooks 
that  crawl, 

With  lazy  whispers,  through  the  lilies  tall, 

Or  rattle  o'er  the  pebbles,  will  allure 
With  no  feigned  sweetness,  if  their  fount  be  sweet. 

So  thou,  the  sun  whence  all  my  light  doth  flow  — 

Thou,  sovereign  law  by  which  my  fancies  grow  — 
Thou,  fount  of  every  feeling,  slow  or  fleet  — 

Against  thyself  wouldst  aim  a  treacherous  blow, 

Slaying  thy  honor  with  thy  own  conceit. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  399 


WHT  shall  I  chide  the  hand  of  wilful  Time 

When  he  assaults  thy  wondrous  store  of  charms  ? 
Why  charge  the  gray-beard  with  a  wanton  crime  ? 
Or  strive  to  daunt  him  with  my  shrill  alarms  ? 

Or  seek  to  lull  him  with  a  silly  rhyme  : 
So  he,  forgetful,  pause  upon  his  arms, 
And  leave  thy  beauties  in  their  noble  prime, 
The  sole  survivors  of  his  grievous  harms  ? 

Alas  !  my  love,  though  I  '11  indeed  bemoan 
The  fatal  ruin  of  thy  majesty ; 
Yet  I  '11  remember  that  to  Time  alone 

I  owed  thy  birth,  thy  charms'  maturity, 

Thy  crowning  love,  with  which  he  vested  me, 
Nor  can  reclaim,  though  all  the  rest  be  flown. 


400  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


LOVE  is  that  orbit  of  the  restless  soul 

Whose  circle  grazes  the  confines  of  space, 

Bounding  within  the  limits  of  its  race 

Utmost  extremes  ;  whose  high  and  topmost  poll 

Within  the  very  blaze  of  heaven  doth  roll ; 

Whose  nether  course  is  through  the  darkest  place 
Eclipsed  by  hell.     What  daring  hand  shall  trace 
The  blended  joys  and  sorrows  that  control 

A  heart  whose  journeys  the  fixed  hand  of  fate 

Points  through  this  pathway  ?     Who  may  soar  so 

high  — 
Behold  such  glories  with  unwinking  eye  ? 

Who  drop  so  low  beneath  his  mortal  state, 
And  thence  return  with  careful  chart  and  date, 
To  mark  which  way  another's  course  must  lie  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  401 


THOU  who  dost  smile  upon  me,  yet  unknown, 

Mayst  have  more  cause  if  thou  wilt  draw  more 

near. 

Now  Summer's  heat  unbinds  the  golden  zone 
Of  virgin  buds  ;  then  why  should  chilling  fear 

Seal  up  thy  heart,  and  leave  thy  love  unblown, 
While  Nature  whispers  in  thy  timid  ear, 
"  Now  is  the  time  "  ?  For  Summer 's  quickly  flown, 
And  Winter's  frost  rounds  up  the  flying  year. 

Lady,  I  pray  thee,  take  unto  thy  heart 
The  lesson  mother  Nature  reads  to  thee  ; 
Nor  act  towards  me  a  more  ungentle  part 

Than  Summer  acts  towards  every  budding  tree, 
That  feels  her  influence  through  its  being  dart, 
As  I  would  feel  thy  influence  dart  through  me. 
VOL.  n.  26 


SONGS    AND    SOXNETS. 


FEAR  not,  dear  maid,  the  love  I  give  to  thee 
Shall  feel  the  palsied  touch  of  Time's  decay. 
Thou  dost  confess  my  love  will  ever  be, 
And  only  fear  its  strength  may  waste  away, 

Dropping  its  blossoms  as  the  seasons  flee  ; 
Or  like  the  evening  of  a  boreal  day, 
In  lingering  twilight  stretch  its  sullen  ray, 
And  on  the  edge  of  night  hang  doubtfully. 

Grant  love  eternal,  and  thou  grantest  all ; 
Eternity  counts  not  the  passing  hour, 
Eternity  knows  naught  of  wane  or  fall, 

Nor  measures  days  by  bloom  or  fade  of  flower, 
Nor  o'er  its  splendor  casts  sad  evening's  pall ; 
To  Time  belongs  this  ever-changing  power. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  403 


WHERE  lags  my  mistress  while  the  drowsy  year 
Wakes  into  Spring  ?     Lo  !  Winter  sweeps  away 
His  snowy  skirts,  and  leaves  the  landscape  gay 
With  early  verdure  ;  and  there 's  merry  cheer 

Among  the  violets,  where  the  sun  lies  clear 
On  the  south  hill-sides  ;  and  at  break  of  day 
I  heard  the  blue-bird  busy  at  my  ear  ; 
And  swallows  shape  their  nests  of  matted  clay 

Along  the  eaves,  or  dip  their  narrow  wings 
Into  the  mists  of  evening.  All  the  earth 
Stirs  with  the  wonder  of  a  coming  birth, 

And  all  the  air  with  feathery  music  rings. 

Spring,  it  would  crown   thee  with   transcendent 

worth, 
To  bring  my  love  among  thy  beauteous  things. 


404  SOXGS    AND    SOXXET3. 


0  !  WOULD  that  Fortune  might  bestow  on  me 
One  hour  secluded  from  the  prying  world ! 
.  So   that  the   crowd   through  which  my  heart  is 

hurled, 
Like  a  poor  wreck  upon  a  stormy  sea, 

Might  rage  afar  ;  and  under  some  kind  lea, 

Bo  we  red   with   the   creeping  woodbine,  and  im- 

pearled 

With  the  fresh  gems  of  morning,  I  might  be 
For  once  alone  with  Nature  and  with  thee. 

For  unto  Nature's  ear  I  would  resign 

The  struggling  secrets  which  my  bosom  fill — 
The  o'erfraught  mystery  of  my  own  sweet  ill, 

In  loving  thee  beyond  the  prudent  line 
Marked  out  by  selfish  philosophic  skill  — 
To  Nature's  ear,  dear  lady,  and  to  thine. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  405 


YOUR  love  to  me  appears  in  doubtful  signs, 

Vague  words,   shy  looks,  that  never  touch   the 
heart  ; 

But  to  the  brain  a  scanty  hint  impart 

As  to  whose  side  your  dear  regard  inclines : 
Thence,  forced  by  reason  through  the  narrow  lines 

That  mark  and  limit  the  logician's  art  — 

Catching  from   thought  to    thought  —  my   mind 
combines 

In  one  idea  the  mystic  things  you  start, 
And  coldly  utters  to  my  heart  —  that  swells 

With  tardy  rapture  —  "  It  is  thee  she  loves  I  " 

Alas  !  alas  !  that  reason  only  proves 
A  fact  your  cautious  action  never  tells, 

That  I  must  reach  my  joy  by  slow  removes, 

And  guess  at  love,  as  at  the  oracles. 


406  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


No  gentle  touches  of  your  timid  hand  — 
No  shuddering  kisses  pressed  upon  my  lip, 
'Twixt  fear  and  passion  —  no  bold  words  that  strip 
The  feigning  garb  off  in  which  we  two  stand, 

Acting  our  parts,  at  the  harsh  world's  command  — 
No  deed  that  offers  to  our  dust  a  sip 
Of  heavenly  nectar  —  no  incautious  slip, 
To  wring  a  tear,  yet  calmly  bear  the  brand, 

For  the  great  love  through  which  we  were  betrayed  ! 
Love  flies  with  us  on  sorely  crippled  wings  : 
Prudence,  and  interest,  and  the  bitter  stings 

Of  shrewd  distrust,  are  doled  me.     I  am  made 
A  beggar  on  your  bounty.     Lend  me  aid  : 
My  heart  starves,  lady,  on  these  wretched  things. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  40T 


DOUBT  is  the  offspring  of  a  self-distrust, 
The  coward  mood  of  a  desponding  mind, 
The  treacherous  pathway  o'er  which  fancy,  blind 
To  love's  clear  pointings,  treads,  as  o'er  the  crust 

Of  a  most  faithless  quicksand  ;  'tis  the  rust 
Upon  truth's  shield,  the  blemish  that  we  find 
Upon  a  mirror,  carelessly  designed, 
Distorting  nature  into  shapes  unjust, 

And  making  all  things  that  within  it  move, 
Move  in  confusion,  falsely  and  awry. 
Doubt  is  the  lees  of  thought,  the  dregs  that  lie 

Beyond  the  bounds  which  reason  reigns  above, 
Baffling  the  keenness  of  his  sun-bright  eye  ;  — 
Yea,  doubt  is  anything  —  but  honest  love. 


408  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


As  at  an  altar,  love,  behold  me  kneel 
Thus  at  thy  feet.     Too  solemn  for  a  lie 
My  awful  action,  and  thy  bended  eye, 
Whose  searching  power  I  cannot  choose  but  feel. 

And  here,  thus  lowly,  all  that  might  conceal 
My  heart  from  thee  I  sunder  and  cast  by  ; . 
Courting  thy  notice,  begging  thee  to  pry 
Through  all  my  nature,  till  the  whole  reveal 

Itself  to  thee.     Then  say  if  thou  dost  find 

One  hint  of  falsehood,  one  poor  thought  to  breed 
Doubt,  or  doubt's  shadow,  in  thy  candid  mind  ? 

Ah,  no  !  I  love  thee  ;  and  my  sorest  need 
Is  trust  from  thee,  a  patient  trust,  resigned 
To  face  all  ills,  and  triumph  though  it  bleed. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  409 


I  DO  assure  thee,  love,  each  kiss  of  thine 
Adds  to  my  stature,  makes  me  more  a  man, 
Lightens  my  care,  and  draws  the  bitter  wine 
That  I  was  drugged  with,  while  my  nature  ran 

Its  slavish  course.     For  didst  not  thou  untwine 
My  cunning  fetters  ?  break  the  odious  ban, 
That  quite  debased  me  ?  free  this  heart  of  mine, 
And  deck  my  chains  with  roses  ?     While  I  can 

I  '11  chant  thy  praises,  till  the  world  shall  ring 
With  thy  great  glory  ;  and  the  heaping  store 
Of  future  honors,  for  the  songs  I  sing, 

Shall  miss  thy  poet,  at  thy  feet  to  pour 
A  juster  tribute,  as  the  gracious  spring 
Of  my  abundance.  —  Kiss  me,  then,  once  more. 


410  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


To  win  and  lose  thee  !     In  one  hour  to  say, 

"  Lo  !  love  is  mine  !  "  and  ere  the  dazzled  mind 
Can  know  the  fulness  of  its  bliss,  or  find 
Its  conscious  vision  lifted  o'er  the  sway 

Of  raging  passion  —  while  the  heart,  a  prey 
To  aching  sense,  is  shrunken  and  grown  blind 
With  too  much  light  —  to  hear  from  every  wind 
Hissed  in  my  ear,  "  Lo  !  love  has  flown  away  I  " 

As  if  some  careless  angel  left  apart 

Heaven's  golden  doors,  and  I  had  seen  within 
The  radiant  saints,  and  heard  the  holy  din 

Of  choral  triumph,  ere  with  jealous  start 

The  gates  shot  backward,  closing  my  sad  heart, 
With  that  bright  memory,  in  a  world  of  sin. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  411 


HERE  part  we,  love,  beneath  the  world's  broad  eye, 
Yet  heart  to  heart  still  answers  as  of  old  ; 
And  though  fore'er  within  my  breast  I  hold 
Thy  image  shut,  and  ne'er,  by  look  nor  sigh, 

Betray  thy  presence  to  the  foes  who  lie 

Ambushed  around  us,  do  not  deem  me  cold. 
For  cowering  Love's  wide  pinions  only  fold 
Closer,  to  shield  him  from  the  storm  that 's  nigh,  — 

Closer,  to  warm  the  fresh  and  godlike  form 

That  glows  with  life  beneath  the  shrinking  wings. 
So  my  deep  love  around  thee  darkly  flings 

This  cloud  of  coldness,  that,  beneath  it,  warm 
As  the  snow-covered  currents  of  the  springs, 
Our  hearts  may  beat,  safe-sheltered  from  the  storm. 


412  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


AND  shall  we  part  without  a  parting  kiss  ? 
Must  all  the  love  I  bore  thee,  all  that  thou 
Didst  swear  to  me,  untrammelled,  vow  on  vow, 
Ebb  to  this  lowness,  come  at  last  to  this  ? 

A  thousand  fears  have  crossed  my  dream  of  bliss  ; 
And  in  the  very  blush  and  early  glow 
Of  budding  passion,  I  was  stricken  low 
By  boding  fancies,  lest  our  love  should  miss 

A  happy  goal  by  its  too  eager  start. 

Yet,  come  what  might,  I  should  have  boldly  sworn 
That  if  we  parted,  howsoe'er  forlorn 

Our  future  lot,  or  cruel  the  present  smart, 
Or  what  wild  acts  of  passion  might  be  born 
From  our  despair,  that  thus  we  would  not  part. 


SOXGS    AND    SONNETS.  413 


No  hope  is  mine,  no  comfort  mine  ;  for  I 
Am  as  an  exile,  and  no  pilgrim's  grace 
Nerves  my  despair  ;  I  never  can  retrace 
The  paths  I  trod,  though  myriads  pass  me  by, 

Journeying,  light-hearted,  to  the  happy  place 

Whence  I  am  driven.   Thou,  Nature,  on  whose  face 
I  look  for  aid,  dost  close  thy  weary  eye 
Against  my  grief.     The  moon  wanes  in  the  sky, 

The  flowers  dry  up  and  perish,  the  great  sea 

Through  all  its  land-locked  arteries  ebbs,  the  dew 
Lies  sickening  on  the  blighted  branch  ;  no  new 

Creation  opens  with  the  Spring  :  to  me 

There  is  no  crescent  moon,  no  bud,  no  view 
Of  refluent  tides,  no  fruit, —  nor  will  there  be. 


414  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


IMAGINE,  love,  that  I  bent  over  thee  ; 

Imagine,  love,  I  brushed  thy  eyelids  dry, 
Hushed  in  my  hands  thy  oft-recurring  sigh, 
Warmed  thee  within  my  arms,  and  patiently 

Talked  down  thy  sorrows,  till  thy  heart  in  glee 
Leaped  up  and  rapturously  laughed  ;  while  I 
Stared  in  blank  wonder  at  the  mystery. 
Then,  with  moist  lashes,  put  thy  tresses  by  — 

Marvelling  in  silence  at  the  happy  spell 

That  brought  thee  comfort  —  and  thy  features  dyed 
With  added  crimson,  as  my  kisses  fell 

Warm  on  thy  lips  and  forehead.     In  my  pride 
I  fancy  thus,  and  thou  canst  do  as  well ; 
;T  would  be  no  fancy,  were  I  at  thy  side. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  415 


MY  lady  sighs,  and  I  am  far  away ; 
My  lady  weeps,  and  I  cannot  be  near 
To  still  the  sigh,  or  catch  the  falling  tear 
On  lips  whose  office  'tis  to  own  her  sway, 

And  curl  in  scorn  when  other  maidens  play 
Their  love-pranks  round  me.     I  am  lost  in  fear, 
Haunted  with  doubts  and  shadows  that  appear 
To  lengthen  ever  with  declining  day. 

All  things  seem  dubious  ;  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  my  own  heart,  the  wild  ideas  that  move 
Like  phantoms  through  my  brain,  the  faith  above 

My  intellectual  grasp,  do  but  appall 

By  their  dim  aspects,  and  I  doubt  them  all ;  — 
All  seem  unreal,  except  alone  thy  love. 


416  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


IF,  by  an  absence  of  unnumbered  years, 

I  could  return,  and  find  thy  feelings  changed  ; 

If,  by  the  shedding  of  uncounted  tears, 

I  could  wash  out  what  early  sorrow  stained  ; 

If  by  a  coldness  I  could  wake  thy  fears, 

And  make  thee  chary  of  what  love  remained  ; 
Nay,  if  by  hollow  pride,  and  empty  sneers  — 
Galling  to  thee,  though  but  by  cunning  feigned  - 

I  could  once  more  upon  thy  gentle  breast 

Lay  my  poor  head,  with  all  its  aching  thought, 
And  rock  my  troubled  fancies  into  rest, 

Or  soothe  the  sorrows  which  my  cruelty  wrought ; 
I  would  endure  the  grief,  or  act  the  jest,  — 
Yea,  double  both,  yet  hold  the  price  as  naught. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  417 


HENCE,  cold  despair  !     I  do  believe  that  they 
Who  fold  a  promise,  and  within  the  breast 
Cherish  a  faith,  shall  some  time  know  the  rest 
Of  bliss  consummate.     This  immortal  clay 

Is  tempered  in  the  tears  we  brush  away  ; 
Made  fruitful  by  our  smiles  ;  and  every  test 
That  love  overcomes  adds  plumage  to  his  crest, 
And  seals  the  triumph  of  a  future  day. 

Else  would  this  stormy  heart  outpour  in  vain 
Its  frequent  tears  ;  and  its  wild  bursts  of  joy, 
And  love  unutterable,  would  but  annoy, 

Not  lighten  the  fall  spirit  of  its  pain. 
Let  us  believe  these  raptures  find  employ, 
And  smooth  a  pathway  that  may  yet  be  plain. 
VOL.  n.  2t 


418  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


ON  MY  LADY'S  LETTER. 

THIS  slip  of  paper  touched  thy  gentle  hand, 

Doubtless  was  sunned  beneath  thy  radiant  eye  ; 
Perhaps  had  clearer  honor,  and  did  lie 
Upon  thy  bosom,  or  was  proudly  fanned 

Within  thy  fragrant  breath.     At  my  command 
A  thousand  fancies  growing,  as  they  fly, 
To  maddening  sweetness,  flit  my  vision  by, 
And  mingle  golden  vapors  with  the  sand 

That  times  my  idle  being.     Senseless  things 
Start  into  dignity  beneath  thy  touch, 
Mount  from  the  earth  on  love's  ecstatic  wings, 

And  to  my  eyes  seem  sacred.     If  from  such 
I  draw  such  rapture,  who  may  say  how  much, 
Wert  thou  the  theme  of  my  imaginings  ! 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  419 


THE  ghostly  midnight  settles  on  my  heart. 
The  winter  rain  against  my  window  beats, 
The  flaring  lights  along  the  level  streets 
Look  through  a  misty  halo  ;  torn  apart 

By  every  gust,  the  fog-wreaths  twist  and  start 
In  wild  disorder.     Not  a  passer  meets 
My  straining  eye  ;  no  song  nor  whistle  greets 
My  listening  ear.     This  thronged  and  feverish  mart 

Sleeps  through  the  night,  and  Nature  rules  supreme. 
What  thoughts  are  mine  ?  what  visions  come  to  me, 
Drifting  alone  amid  this  tideless  sea, 

When  e'en  thy  eyes  are  closed  above  a  dream 
In  which,  perhaps,  no  trace  of  me  may  seem,  — 
What  can  I  do  but  dream  and  dream  of  thee  ? 


420  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


IN  this  deep  hush  and  quiet  of  my  soul, 
When  life  runs  low,  and  all  my  senses  stay 
Their  daily  riot ;  when  my  wearied  clay 
Resigns  its  functions,  and,  without  control 

Of  selfish  passion,  my  essential  whole 
Rises  in  purity,  to  make  survey 
Of  those  poor  deeds  that  wear  my  days  away  ; 
When  in  my  ear  I  hear  the  distant  toll 

Of  bells  that  murmur  of  my  coming  knell, 
And  all  things  seem  a  show  and  mockery  — 
Life,  and  life's  actions,  noise  and  vanity ; 

I  ask  my  mournful  heart  if  it  can  tell 
If  all  be  truth  which  I  protest  to  thee  : 
And  my  heart  answers,  solemnly,  "  'T  is  well ! ;; 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  421 


I  HAVE  been  mounted  on  life's  topmost  wave, 
Until  my  forehead  kissed  the  dazzling  cloud  ; 
I  have  been  dashed  beneath  the  murky  shroud 
That  yawns  between  the  watery  crests.     I  rave, 

Sometimes,  liked  cursed  Orestes  ;  sometimes  lave 
My  limbs  in  dews  of  asphodel ;  or,  bowed 
With  torrid  heat,  I  moan  to  heaven  aloud, 
Or  shrink  with  Winter  in  his  icy  cave. 

Now  peace  broods  over  me  ;  now  savage  rage 
Spurns  me  across  the  world.  Nor  am  I  free 
From  nightly  visions,  when  the  pictured  page 

Of  sleep  unfolds  its  varied  leaves  to  me, 
Changing  as  often  as  the  mimic  stage  ;  — 

And  all  this,  lady,  through  my  love  for  thee  ! 


422  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


AH  !  would  to  heaven  that  this  dear  misery, 
Which  day  by  day  within  my  heart  I  nurse, 
Shaping  the  issue  of  the  direful  curse, 
Against  myself,  with  sad  fatality  — 

This  snare  of  love,  which  so  entangles  me, 
Might  be  unknit.     For  in  my  dark  reverse 
Of  hopeless  passion,  I  must  suffer  worse 
Than  the  dull  wretch  who,  ignorant,  yet  free, 

Plods  through  his  daily  round  of  easy  cares, 

Nor  knows  the  shuddering  depths  and  trembling 

heights 
Of  my  deep  sorrows  and  supreme  delights ; 

The  dizzy  summits  which  my  spirit  dares, 

Winging  towards  thee,  in  its  audacious  flights, 
Its  gloomy  falls  to  fathomless  despairs. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  423 


SOMETIMES,  in  bitter  fancy,  I  bewail 

This  spell  of  love,  and  wish  the  cause  removed ; 
Wish  I  had  never  seen,  or,  seeing,  not  loved 
So  iitterly  that  passion  should  prevail 

O'er  self-regard,  and  thoughts  of  thee  assail 

Those  inmost  barriers  which  so  long  have  proved 
Unconquerable,  when  such  defence  behoved. 
But,  ah  !  my  treacherous  heart  doth  ever  fail 

To  ratify  the  sentence  of  my  mind  ; 

For  when  conviction  strikes  me  to  the  core, 
I  swear  I  love  thee  fondlier  than  before  ; 

And  were  I  now  all  free  and  unconfmed, 
Loose  as  the  action  of  the  shoreless  wind, 
My  slavish  heart  would  sigh  for  bonds  once  more. 


424  SONGS    AND   SONNETS. 


TO-NIGHT  the  tempest  rages.     All  without 
Is  darkness,  terror,  and  tremendous  wails 
From  the  mad  winds.     Fierce  rains  and  savage 

hails 
Dash  on  my  window  ;  and  the  branches  shout, 

To  see  their  luckless  blossoms  strewn  about, 

Like  frantic  mourners.     God,  this  night  she  sails 
O'er  the  chaotic  ocean !     Fear  prevails 
Above  my  cowering  spirit ;  and  a  rout 

Of  dark  forebodings  makes  this  pitchy  night 
One  solid  gloom.     Hark,  how  the  rushing  air 
Clashes  my  casement !     Ah  !  what  heart  shall  dare 

Stand  between  her  and  danger,  as  I  might, 

Cheering  her  courage  with  love's  steady  light  ? 

God,  I  am  absent,  wilt  not  Thou  be  there  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  425 


ANOTHER  shriek  like  that,  0  furious  wind, 

Will  madden  me !     Is  there  no  hand  to  check 
Thy  wild  career  ?  no  power  whose  awful  beck 
May  lull  thy  frenzied  wrath  ?     For  thou  art  blind 

With  loosened  passion  ;  arid,  thus  unconfined, 
Thou  dost  abuse  thy  license,  to  the  wreck 
Of  all  creation.     Now,  how  reels  the  deck 
Above  my  helpless  love  !     How  every  mind, 

Pent  in  that  groaning  vessel,  paints  its  thought 
Of  shameless  fear  upon  each  pallid  face  ! 
How  the  infectious  passion  spreads  !  till,  base 

With  selfish  terror,  man  is  worse  than  naught, 
And  manhood  but  a  name.     If  prayers  are  aught, 
God,  stand  me  near  her,  in  some  coward's  place  ! 


426  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


AGAIN  the  tireless  winds  are  rushing  past, 
Heavy  with  blinding  vapors  ;  and  again 
The  streaming  willows  lash  my  window-pane, 
Dotting  the  glass  with  yellow  leaves  that  fast 

Cling  to  their  dripping  hold,  like  wretches  cast 
Upon  my  charity.     Across  the  main 
My  love  still  sails ;  and  forth,  through  storm  and 

rain, 
My  heart  goes  out  to  seek  her.     Kuthless  blast, 

Chill  northern  mist,  and  cutting  hail,  are  ye 
Fit  comrades  for  a  being  who  has  known 
No  harsher  sounds  than  the  close  whispered  tone 

Of  my  affection  ?  —  cold  to  no  degree 

More  than  my  arms  clasped  round  her  tenderly  ?  — 
No  crueller  wounds  than  from  my  eyes  were  thrown  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  42*7 


THANK  Heaven,  a  lull  —  a  lull  in  the  long  roar 
Of  the  spent  hurricane  ;  and,  lo  !  afar, 
Through  the  fast-scudding  rack,  one  splendid  star — 
Brighter  to  me  than  star  e'er  shone  before  — 

Looks  downward,  like  the  mystic  light  that  bore 
Peace  and  good  will  to  mortals.     Ye  that  are 
The  seaman's  joy,  soft  western  gales,  debar 
Your  breath  no  longer  ;  waft  her  gently  o'er 

The  calming  sea  :  then,  if  ye  will,  return 
In  stormy  fleetness,  hissing  from  the  East, 
With  your  old  rage  a  thousand-fold  increased  ; 

For  though  the  universal  ether  burn 

With  your  hot  flight,  too  soon  I  cannot  learn 
That  all  the  perils  of  my  love  have  ceased. 


428  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHAT  fancy,  or  what  flight  of  winged  thought, 
0  lady  of  my  heart,  hast  thou  to  chime 
Accordant  with  the  flow  of  my  poor  rhyme  ? 
Have  my  strange  songs  a  dearer  solace  brought 

Than  those  remembered  lays  thy  childhood  caught, 
And  treasured  safely  through  disloyal  time  — 
Lays  of  a  sweeter  tongue  and  fairer  clime ; 
Pure  as  thy  dreams,  before  our  passion  sought 

And  won  the  shadowy  realm,  and  steeped  thy  sleep 
In  fiery  visions  and  terrific  throes 
Of  self-consuming  love  ?     My  songs  are  foes 

To  peace  and  thee  ;  yet  thou  dost  bid  me  sweep 
The  torturing  strings,  although  thy  eyelids  weep  : 

Find'st  thou  a  pleasure  in  thy  very  woes  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  429 


I  KNOW  art  hardens  what  my  love  would  speak, 
And  bounds  my  feelings  with  a  rigid  line 
Of  measured  rhymes,  whose  narrow  laws  confine 
My  forward  passions,  making  cold  and  weak 

The  warm  rich  currents  that  forever  seek 

An  outlet  from  my  heart.  The  loss  is  thine  — 
To  taste  but  water  where  you  hoped  for  wine  ; 
But  mine  the  shameful  burning  of  the  cheek  — 

Mine  the  cruel  sorrow  o'er  a  fruitless  deed, 
Who  boasted  nobly  how  sublime  a  thing 
Should  bloom  from  love,  and  decorate  the  Spring 

With  beauties  suited  aptly  to  the  seed 
From  whence  it  grew ;  —  but  grew  a   sightless 

weed, 
Shaming  the  hand  that  makes  the  offering. 


430  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


YET,  love,  forgive  thy  Poet  if  his  lays 

Faint  with  a  burden  which  they  cannot  bear  ; 
And  vain  regret,  and  miserable  despair, 
Are  the  sole  offsprings  of  my  weak  essays. 

To  paint  a  passion  that  so  strongly  sways 
My  lowly  heart,  I  should  be  master  where 
I  feel  myself  but  slave,  and  scarcely  dare 
Lift  up  my  eyes  to  what  my  hand  portrays. 

Forgive  my  feeble  efforts  :  and  believe 

Feeling  o'ermasters  art ;  and  conquered  art, 
Like  a  true  slave,  works  on  with  heavy  heart, 

Slighting  its  ordered  task.     Then,  do  not  grieve 
At  my  cold  words  ;  but  say  my  words  deceive, 
Reaching  at  that  which  words  cannot  impart. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  431 


0  !  for  some  spirit,  some  magnetic  spark, 

That  used  nor  word,  nor  rhyme,  nor  balanced  pause 
Of  doubtful  phrase,  which  so  supinely  draws 
My  barren  verse,  and  blurs  love's  shining  mark 

With  misty  fancies  !  —  0  !  to  burst  the  dark 

Of  smothered  feeling  with  some  new-found  laws, 
Hidden  in  nature,  that  might  bridge  the  flaws 
Between  two  beings,,  end  this  endless  cark, 

And  make  hearts  know  what  lips  have  never  said  1 
0  !  for  some  spell,  by  which  one  soul  might  move 
With  echoes  from  another,  and  dispread 

Contagious  music  through  its  chords,  above 
The  touch  of  mimic  art :  that  thou  might  tread 
Beneath  thy  feet  this  wordy  show  of  love  1 


432  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


THERE  is  a  sorrow  underlays  mere  grief, 

A  gnawing  woe  beyond  the  source  of  tears, 
A  weary  pain  with  neither  hopes  nor  fears, 
A  dull,  dead  load  that  cannot  find  relief 

In  running  eyes,  whose  passions  are  as  brief 
As  their  o'erflowings.     For  each  tear-drop  clears 
The  heart  from  which  it  issues,  and  oft  cheers 
With  sunny  dew  the  gloomiest  cypress-leaf. 

But,  ah  !  my  care  sticks  ever  at  the  heart, 
Haunts  every  thought,  and  deadens  every  sense  ; 
Sighs  are  in  vain,  tears  come  not,  and  the  tense 

Cords  of  existence  strain,  yet  will  not  part 

Their  stubborn  hold  on  earth.     0  !  bitter  smart, 
To  call  thee  mine,  who  must  be  ever  hence. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  433 


To  love  thee  absent  were  sufficient  pain, 

Even  though  that  pain  might  not  outlast  a  day ; 

And  with  to-morrow's  sunset  I  could  say, 

"  Lo  !  moonrise  comes,  and  love  shines  out  again  1  " 
Or  stretch  the  term  a  week  ;  I  might  restrain 

This  heart  until  the  Sabbath  morn  should  lay 

Its  peace  upon  it.     Months  might  glide  away  ; 

And  I  could  count  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
And  sum  them  up  in  flowers,  to  prophesy 

Thy  fragrant  coming.     Though  a  year  would  be 

A  weary  time,  I  could  wait  patiently 
To  hear  Christ's  birthday  clamored  through  the  sky 

By  the  rejoicing  bells  :  but  who  shall  try 

To  fix  time's  measures  on  eternity  ? 

VOL.  n.  28 


434  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHY  should  I  cheat  my  heart  with  open  lies, 
Summoned  by  Fancy  from  her  teeming  store  ?  — 
Why  call  thee  mine  alone  forevermore, 
Yet  know  what  distance  parts,  what  fate  defies 

Our  mutual  love  ?     True,  we  are  joined  by  ties 
That  girdle  earth,  and  bind  fate's  functions  o'er 
To  sovereign  love  :  but  shall  I  not  deplore 
That  I  no  longer  look  into  thy  eyes  — 

Bask  in  thy  presence  —  fill  my  aching  soul 

With  love's  sweet  calm  ?  —  Or  all  my  senses  thrill 
With  kisses  gathered  here  and  there  at  will, 

As  flowers  in  spring-time,  till  we  touch  the  goal 
Of  more  than  mortal  ecstasy,  and  roll 
In  joys  that  make  the  wondering  gods  stand  still  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  435 


AH  !  let  me  live  on  memories  of  old,  — 
The  precious  relics  I  have  set  aside 
From  life's  poor  venture  ;  things  that  yet  abide 
My  ill-paid  labor,  shining,  like  pure  gold, 

Amid  the  dross  of  cheated  hopes  whose  hold 
Dropped  at  the  touch  of  action.     Let  me  glide 
Down  the  smooth  past,  review  that  day  of  pride 
When  each  to  each  our  mutual  passion  told  — 

When  love  grew  frenzy  in  thy  blazing  eye, 
Fear  shone  heroic,  caution  quailed  before 
My  hot,  resistless  kisses  —  when  we  bore 

Time,  conscience,  destiny,  down,  down  for  aye, 
Beneath  victorious  love,  and  thou  didst  cry, 
"  Strike,  God  1  life's  cup  is  running  o'er  and  o'er  ! 


436  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


IN  vain  to  thee  I  stretch  imploring  arms 
Across  the  hollow  waste  of  barren  night ; 
In  vain  I  task  my  jaded  eyes  for  sight 
Of  some  fair  vision,  whose  imagined  charms 

May  mimic  thine.     My  bitter  knowledge  warms 
Against  my  fancy.     Love  draws  no  delight 
From  self-delusion  ;  and  a  hateful  flight 
Of  stinging  truths  around  my  senses  swarms, 

Forcing  thy  absence  on  me.     Idle  dreams 
Trouble  my  slumbers  ;  but  when  any  ray 
Of  thy  bright  presence  through  the  darkness  beams, 

I  start  and  wake,  as  though  the  height  of  day 
Flamed  on  my  eyelids  :  for  it  only  seems 
That  I  must  love,  and  thou  be  far  away. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  437 


TIME  shall  not  dry  thy  ever-falling  tears 

For  me,  thou  lone  one  !  sorrowing  o'er  the  ill 
That  tortures  thee,  and  can  do  aught  but  kill. 
I  will  pursue  thee  through  the  bitter  years, 

A  loathful  shadow,  following  thee  still, 

Dragged  after  thee  against  my  better  will ; 
Struck  by  the  burning  hand  which  God  uprears 
Against  our  sin  ;  and  doomed  o'er  vale  and  hill 

To  dog  thy  feet,  to  trail  my  blackness  o'er 

Thy  brightest  path,  to  make  the  flowers  assume 
A  dull,  sick  look,  to  wrap  in  horrid  gloom 

All  things  around  thee,  till  the  awful  store 

Of  vengeance  on  our  crime  be  poured  no  more, 
And  we  together  sink  into  the  tomb. 


438  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


I  DO  not  sorrow  that  thy  love  was  cast 
On  one  unworthy  of  thy  purer  thought ; 
Nor  that  the  promise  of  thy  youth  was  brought 
To  barren  issue  by  the  deadly  blast 

That  plagued  the  heart  to  which  thy  heart  held  fast, 
And  in  the  rarest  gift  of  nature  wrought 
A  noxious  canker,  mocking  thee  who  sought 
To  find  a  sweetness  in  it.     If  the  past 

Were  passed  indeed  ;  and  thou,  away  from  me, 
Couldst  gather  bloom,  and  for  the  future  nurse 
Thy  withered  youth  to  beauty  ;  or  rehearse, 

Some  day,  the  moral  of  thy  grief,  and  be 
From  the  infection  of  my  influence  free,  — 
'T  were  well,  but  I  pursue  thee  like  a  curse. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  439 


I  HEARD  a  voice  that  through  the  midnight  cried, 
"  Thy  peace  is  gone,  thy  sweet  content  is  fled ! 
Never  again,"  the  phantom  prophet  said, 
"  Shalt  thou  taste  joy  ;  for  love  to  thee  has  died, 

And  naught  of  love  remaineth,  now,  beside 
His  ashes  and  thy  sorrow.     Where  is  sped 
The  shaft  you  shot  ?     Has  not  your  bosom  bled, 
By  your  own  hand  transpierced  ?  "     0  !  thou  hast 
lied- 

0  !  viewless  phantom,  thou  hast  lied  to  me  ! 
Love  is  immortal  as  this  crown  of  bay, 
Which  from  my  brow  upon  his  tomb  I  lay  — 

Love  is  immortal  in  my  memory  ! 

And  I  will  watch  his  relics,  weep  and  pray, 
And  from  my  heart  sing  his  sad  elegy. 


440  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


LIKE  old  King  Hamlet  sleeping  in  the  flowers, 

O'er-arched  with  woodbine  and  the  clustering  rose, 

I  lay  supine  in  odorous  repose, 

Safe,  as  I  thought,  amid  my  garden  bowers : 

While  with  light  footsteps  tripped  the  smiling  hours, 
And  my  heart  fluttered  with  the  rapturous  throes 
Of  such  a  dream  of  joy  as,  haply,  flows 
Past  the  closed  eyelids  of  the  musing  powers 

Who  rest  in  Eden  —  with  a  dream  of  thee. 
Anon  upon  me,  with  accursed  bane, 
Fate  stole  on  tiptoe,  and  through  ear  and  brain 

Poured  his  foul  poison.     Wild  with  agony, 
I  shriek,  I  wake,  I  would  but  cannot  flee  ; 
Then  helpless  fall,  no  more  to  dream  again. 


SOXG8    AND    SONNETS.  441 


No  forward  step  in  all  my  history, 

Through  the  wide  region  of  my  coming  life, 
But  shall  resound,  above  the  din  and  strife 
Of  every  action,  with  the  fame  of  thee. 

No  lyric  song,  no  stately  tragedy, 

No  cry  of  joy  nor  pain,  but  shall  be  rife 

With  thy  sweet  self.     More  close  than  man  to  wife 

Shall  we  be  joined  through  all  futurity. 

Doubt  not  the  issue.     While  my  melody 
Shall  move  the  world,  in  each  applauded  lay 
Men  shall  behold  my  love's  undimmed  display  ; 

And  when  the  troubles  of  our  life  shall  be 
Laid  in  the  dust,  the  sorrows  of  to-day 
Shall  be  the  glory  of  thy  memory. 


442  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


I  WILL  not  blazon  forth  thy  sacred  name, 
Holding  thee  up  for  wonder  to  the  mood 
Of  those  poor  fools  whose  darts  of  malice  strewed 
Thy  path  of  life,  and  might  thy  grave  defame  ; 

I  will  but  hint  it  dimly.     Love's  pure  flame 
Will  shine  as  brightly,  though  the  spicy  wood 
Whereon  it  feeds  be  little  understood  ; 
For,  to  all  light  man's  reverence  is  the  same. 

And  if,  in  coming  time,  some  lover  weep 
Over  the  sorrows  of  my  mournful  line  — 
Some  wretch  whose  fortune  has  been  sad  as  mine — 

Wondering,  meanwhile,  what  gentle  name  may  sleep 
Under  my  phrase,  the  homage  shall  be  thine, 
Though  my  sealed  lips  thy  mystic  title  keep. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  443 


As  a  sad  hermit  in  his  cloistered  cell, 

With  the  lone  image  of  his  martyred  Lord, 
The  last,  best  treasure  of  a  wasted  hoard, 
Do  I  alone  with  thy  dear  image  dwell. 

To  thee  alone  my  sinking  heart  shall  swell, 
To  thee  alone  my  scalding  tears  be  poured  ; 
And  to  such  vows  as  thou  didst  once  accord 
I  '11  shape  my  faith  to  thee  invisible. 

And  when  Death's  hand  within  my  own  be  pressed- 
Welcome  as  friendship's  cordial  pressure  —  I 
Will  grasp  his  icy  fingers,  doubly  blest ; 

And  down  to  happy  dreams  of  thee  will  lie, 
With  thy  sweet  promise  cradled  in  my  breast, 
With  thy  sweet  image  beaming  in  my  eye. 


444  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


ONLY  through  this,  this  precious  gift  of  song, 
Can  I  hold  converse  with  my  lady  now. 
For  many  a  threat,  and  many  a  lowering  brow, 
Are  raised  between  us  ;  and  the  ruthless  thong 

Of  slander  hisses  through  the  air,  to  wrong 
Her  tender  nature.     To  the  storm  I  bow ; 
But,  like  a  reed,  the  fiercer  tempests  grow, 
The  clearer  is  my  singing.     Ah  !  the  throng 

Of  heedless  men,  who  in  my  music  hear 
Only  the  echoes  of  their  hearts,  and  see 
Their  petty  loves  reflected  back  from  me, 

Know  not  that  every  tone  is  meant  to  cheer 
The  dismal  fortune  of  thy  history,  — 
Know  not,  dear  heart,  I  'm  whispering  in  thy  ear, 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  445 


FATE,  of  all  seasons,  chose  the  happy  time 

When  the  bud  swells,  the  golden  grasses  spring, 
The  loosened  brooks  for  their  new  freedom  sing, 
The  blue-bird  carols,  and  the  poet's  rhyme 

Renews  its  wasted  nature  ;  when,  sublime 

With  his  own  power,  day's  rich  and  generous  king 
Wheels  on  in  state,  and  all  the  land  doth  fling 
The  flowery  tributes  of  its  loyal  clime 

Before  the  light  of  his  triumphant  smile  :  — 
Ah !  then  the  hand  of  fell  intruding  Fate 
Struck  me  the  blow  that  made  me  desolate  ; 

Nor  yet  content,  with  unrelenting  guile, 
He  chose  this  time,  to  wreak  his  fury  vile, 
And  with  fair  Spring  bemocked  my  fallen  state. 


446  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


I  SHALL  be  faithful,  though  the  weary  years 
Spread  out  before  me  like  a  mountain  chain, 
Rugged  and  steep,  ascending  from  the  plain, 
Without  a  path  ;  though  where  the  cliff  uprears 

Its  sternest  front,  and  echoes  in  my  ears 
My  own  deep  sobs  of  solitary  pain, 
It  is  my  fate  to  scale  ;  though  all  in  vain 
I  spend  my  labor,  and  my  idle  tears 

Torture  but  me  :  I  know,  despite  my  ill, 
That  with  each  step  a  little  wastes  away  — 
A  little  of  this  life  wastes  day  by  day  ; 

And  far  beyond  the  desert  which  I  fill 
With  my  vast  sorrow,  I  have  faith  to  say 
That  we  shall  meet ;  so  I  press  onward  still. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  447 


I  HAVE  not  turned  for  sympathy  to  friends ; 
I  have  not  told  the  story  of  my  wrong, 
Nor  all  the  falsehoods  that  to  thee  belong,  — 
That  shallow-hearted  fickleness  which  sends 

A  pang  through  all  my  nature,  and  oft  ends 
In  dreary  tears  the  proudest  dream  of  song. 
I  have  not  burst  the  knitted  fetters,  strong 
With  my  own  truth,  because  thy  flight  offends. 

What  man  can  say  he  heard  me  sigh  or  groan, 
Quail  at  the  sound  of  thy  oft-mentioned  name, 
Sneer  at  thy  faith,  or  stain  thy  taintless  fame 

With  the  least  breath  of  slander  ?    No,  alone 
I  Ve  borne  the  dreadful  secret  of  thy  shame, 
Hiding  thy  guilt  as  if  it  were  my  own. 


448  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


ACROSS  the  waters,  through  the  void  of  night, 
My  spirit  sends  its  last  despairing  cry. 
One  moment  poised,  as  in  the  act  to  fly, 
With  arms  outstretched,  and  heart  that  yearns  for 
flight, 

I  bend  towards  thee.     0  !  hear  me,  ere  the  bright 
And  happy  impulse  fades  beneath  the  eye 
Of  outraged  pride,  and  self-love  sullenly 
Resumes  his  sceptre  1     Hear  me,  ere  the  blight, 

With  which  thy  falsehood  cankered  me,  shall  fall, 
Like  God's  dread  judgment,  and  the  clinging  stain 

Add  to  my  sorrow,  —  pain  begot  on  pain  ! 

0,  faithless  Love  !  0,  perjured  heart !  0,  all 
Unworthy,  yet  all  loved  !  if  vain  my  call, 
Rest,  dream,  forget !  —  I  shall  not  call  again. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  449 


HERE  let  the  motions  of  the  world  be  still !  — 
Here  let  Time's  fleet  and  tireless  pinions  stay 
Their  endless  flight  1  —  or  to  the  present  day 
Bind  my  Love's  life  and  mine.     I  have  my  fill 

Of  earthly  bliss  :  to  move,  is  to  meet  ill. 

Though  lavish  Fortune  in  my  path  might  lay 
Fame,  power,  and  wealth,— the  toys  that  make  the 

play 
Of  earth's  grown  children,  —  I  would  rather  till 

The  stubborn  furrows  of  an  arid  land, 

Toil  with  the  brute,  bear  famine  and  disease, 
Drink  bitter  bondage  to  the  very  lees, 

Than  break  our  union  by  love's  tender  band, 
Or  drop  its  glittering  shackles  from  my  hand,    . 
To  grasp  at  empty  glories  such  as  these. 
VOL.  n.  29 


450 


SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 


ALL  the  world's  malice,  all  the  spite  of  fate, 
Cannot  undo  the  rapture  of  the  past. 
I,  like  a  victor,  hold  these  glories  fast ; 
And  here  defy  the  envious  powers,  that  wait 
Upon  the  crumbling  fortunes  of  our  state, 
To  snatch  this  myrtle  chaplet,  or  to  blast 
Its  smallest  leaf.     Thus  to  the  wind  I  cast 
^  The  poet's  laurel,  and  before  their  date 
Summon  the  direst  terrors  of  my  doom. 
For,  with  this  myrtle  symbol  of  my  love, 
I  reign  exultant,  and  am  fixed  above 
The  petty  fates  that  other  joys  consume. 

As  on  a  flowery  path,  through  life  I  '11  move,  — 
As  through  an  arch  of  triumph,  pass  the  tomb. 

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